


Y* * > > * V-, 




























* 


\ 





















> 


- 






* 


























i 


























/ 
























% 


BELLAMY 

v r 









i 


E LL A M Y 


BY - — rrt, 

ELINOR MORDAUNT ^ . 

Author of “Simpson,” “Lu of the Ranges,” 

“The Garden of Contentment,” etc. 


“IT IS ILL WORK. ENDEAVOURING TO MAKE A 
SILK PURSE OUT OF A SOW’S EAR” 


1 » J o 

» ) ) 

NEW YORK 

JOHN LANE COMPANY 
MCMXIV 


' f 




Copyright, 1914, 

By JOHN LANE COMPANY 


v 




OCT I 1914 


VAIL- BALLOU COMPANY 

BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK 


>CI. A 3 Y9788 ^ 
^-o gs- 


BELLAMY 



BELLAMY 


CHAPTER I 

N OT many miles from the smoke-blanketed Potter- 
ies — which lie panting with a foul breath night 
and day, winking strained and* bloodshot eyes, seem- 
ing strangers to sleep, wallowing there, in the midst of that 
beautiful country, like Sly the Tinker in the Duke’s bed — 
there is another sort of town: grey where they are black: 
austere and aloof : spreading itself out over a hill-top, set 
in a wide valley among other and greater hills, with all the 
inviolate air of a mountain town. 

For despite the fact that one looks down upon Edge, from 
the broken rocky moorland and wooded heights which en- 
compass it, yet still it seems to soar ; holding its very skirts 
aloof from the polluting breath of Burslem and Stoke, 
Stockport, Newcastle and other unredeemable places. 

In the higher parts of the town, around the market-place, 
the streets are irregular, bearing all the charm of age. A 
charm which finds its focus in the old grey church, with its 
sloping disused churchyard, at the lower corner of which — 
against what is now called Little France — a handful of 
French prisoners are laid to rest; the officers, with all the 
decorum of the eighteenth century, some little distance from 
their men. 

Those were troublesome days. But now the dead, 
French and English alike, lie at peace beneath the crowded 
grey stones ; while the living — who sit each evening on the 
circular seat beneath the ancient lime tree, and look away 
across the valley to the sunset — seem as blankly peaceful 
as their neighbours. Being, for the most part, people who 
have already grown to that age when there is a curious feel- 


2 BELLAMY 

ing of companionship for the stationary inhabitants of such 
places. 

But further down the hill, and more particularly towards 
the south and east, one reaches a different world. Here are 
narrow streets of unredeemed ugliness. Row upon row of 
little houses with no single jutting gable or porch. Squat- 
ting there in silence all through the day, while the people 
are at the mills and the children at school : thin lipped, nar- 
row and appallingly decent, close one against the other as 
the slats of a Venetian blind. So alike that one could not 
imagine a diverse thought in any one of them. 

There may be crimes in Edge. But they are of the silent, 
the inward order; like the quiet, insistent socialism, which 
is — for the most part — more felt than heard. But there 
is nothing desperate: none of those frantic tragedies of love 
and hatred that one may meet with in any little Italian town, 
with just such struggling, rough-paved streets, climbing just 
such a little hill among other hills. 

Almost at the same proud apex as the market proper, 
with its grey stone and black and white timbered houses, is 
the cattle market. And at the top left-hand corner of this, 
splaying out of it like the fingers from the palm of a hand, 
are more of these narrow streets ; while at the angle formed 
by two of them — fronting the cattle market and backed by 
the towering edifice of one of the largest mills — there once 
stood a small general dealer’s shop : with a window at either 
side; one looking down North Street, the other into court 
number five; a little triangular living-room and scullery 
being packed in at the back, along with an apologetic stair- 
way, which squirmed its way almost unseen, to the upper 
story. 

Here was the best bedroom, fronting the court, and the 
parlour fronting North Street. And above these the attics ; 
one used as a sort of store, and the other — at the time of 
which I write, and since he topped his fifth year — as Wal- 
ter Bonnet Bellamy’s bedroom*. 

One side of this attic was so low that, even at his first 
promotion to it, he could not stand upright ; while before he 
was fourteen the highest side missed the top of his head 
by a bare four inches : which left him at five foot one and a 
half. 


BELLAMY 


3 

But this was measuring him by his actual bodily height at 
that time — and he did not attain to his full growth till later 
in life than most young men of his own class, who seem to 
get nipped off, as it were, at sixteen or seventeen — for Wal- 
ter Bellamy’s spirit soared far above the entire house, while 
as yet it was only necessary for him to lower his head the 
merest fraction, in order to stand upright at the lowest side 
of the attic. 

It had soared first when he discovered the joy of making 
people “ believe things ” by transmuting the commonplace 
and punishable pain of green apples — eaten surreptitiously 
and hurriedly before evening service — to the stirring of 
the Spirit. And of not only imposing on his mother, but 
so nearly imposing on himself, that one-half of him was 
present, as a wildly enthusiastic audience, while the other 
was wrung with supplication and prayer : to the wonder and 
edification of the congregation who entreated the Lord, to 
“ come down — ’ere, come right down ’ere ” — and behold 
this second infant Samuel. 

Walter never quite forgot the fashion in which that one- 
half of him still soared, palpitating and triumphant, as he 
was led home by his mother’s hand, stared at in wonder as 
one who had testified, while the other half applauded and 
laughed, doubling itself up with unholy glee. 

“ That ain’t nothing,” Willie Clarke declared next morn- 
ing in the school yard, when young Bellamy’s boasting be- 
came unendurable. “ Any ’un could do the like o’ that ; 
yer shud just ’ear me testify.” 

“ Do it then,” shouted Walter, very red in the face. “ Do 
it then.” And “ Testify, testify ! ” yelled the other pupils. 

But Willy merely stood on one foot; rubbed the heel of 
the other up and down the calf of his leg and said nothing. 
For the Infant Samuel could both fight and testify, and 
Willy could do neither. 

The second step upwards was when he realised the power 
of a stare. A stout old lady had run into him in a crowd 
in the market-place one Wednesday evening, trod on both 
his toes and then abused him ; to be met with a stare of such 
cold contempt that she actually apologised. 

Another child might not have realised the reason for this 
sudden change of front, but little Walter Bellamy had felt 


BELLAMY 


4 

the widening of his eyeballs, the sudden stiffening of his 
entire face. He could not have put it into words, but he 
knew how it was done : did it again and again and tested its 
powers. It was a particularly unchildish achievement, but 
there was never anything really child-like about him. 
When he was a baby he was as enigmatic as an infant Bud- 
dha. When he lengthened out in slim boyhood he was like 
a faun; wholly pagan in his impulses, his reservations, his 
sudden abandonments to the sheer joy of life, his utter 
conscienceless. 

His third step upwards was achieved when he realised the 
value of silence. He was only just eight when this occurred. 

It happened that he was having his tea, in the casual way 
in which meals were taken “ up at Bellamy’s ” — where the 
most intimate and private things of life were split by the 
clang of the shop bell — while his mother busied herself 
making a pair of knickerbockers, of which he was in urgent 
need. 

She had got them cut out and tacked all ready, and had 
just started one seam when the needle of her machine broke. 

“ Why couldn’t it a’ gone an’ done that a’fore; all this 
while ? ” she enquired bitterly, as though the machine were 
sentient and self-propelling, and might in common decency 
have worked off its ill-humour before she touched it. Then 
— still complaining of “ things,” which seemed to have a 
peculiarly nagging way of treating her as they treated no 
one else — she inserted a fresh needle and started the ma- 
chine again, finished a whole seam, regardless of the rasping 
hiccough with which it progressed, and drew out her work 
to find a black welter of heavily looped stitches. 

“If that ain’t like my luck? I’ll never not get ’em done, 
and fer yer to wear them ter-morrow ; with all I ’ave ter do 
an’ all. Did yer ever see the like o’ that ? ” 

She appealed to Walter who regarded the garment held 
out for his inspection with cold distaste. He hated the acid 
smell of the cheap serge, and the unbleached calico with 
which it was lined — each seam stitched in one and each a 
torture. He did not want the knickers finished, he pre- 
ferred his easy rags: he could always boast of his “best” 
at home, but with his “best” on, he could make no show 
whatever. 


BELLAMY 5 

Despite this, however, his pride of knowledge triumphed 
over all else. 

Without a word he dropped from his chair; knelt down 
beside the machine, and began to loosen the screw which 
held the needle. 

“ What art thee arter now ? Dwarn’t thee go tamperin’ 
with that machine,” interposed his mother. 

But without taking the faintest notice of her words the 
boy removed the needle. Turned it round and round in his 
fingers examining it carefully; replaced it, screwed it tight, 
and returning to his place at the littered table, dragged his 
lesson books towards him, remarking : — “ It’ull go now.” 

With a sniff of incredulity, merely to show him his mis- 
take, Mrs. Bellamy ripped out the loose stitches, raised the 
foot of the machine, slipped the work under it, turned the 
handle; and followed in dazed surprise, the smooth, hum- 
ming progress of the needle. 

At the end of the seam she cut the work loose and carried 
it to the door that she might see better, hoping for the worst. 
She liked Wally to appear as a genius before all the world 
— • including the Lord — and a fool before her ; feeling that 
it made him more completely her own. For with no power 
of winning affection she was eternally famished for it. 

But there was no fault to be found. The stitch was 
regular and unbroken. 

“ What didst thee do ter it ? ” she demanded in amaze- 
ment. 

“ You’d got the groove at the wrong side, that’s all,” an- 
swered the boy without raising his head. 

“ How dis’st thee knaw ? ” 

“ Oi knawed.” 

That was all. 

Later on he heard his mother telling some one over the 
back-yard fence : — “ The things that there child knawed, 
without any telling, was past natcher ; ” and hugged himself, 
knowing of whom they spoke. 

It did not seem necessary to tell any one that only the 
night before, playing in Jane Irwin’s kitchen, the same thing 
had happened, when Jane’s father had been appealed to — 
wrested away from the giddy delights of leaning against a 
post, outside the public-house at the corner — and had, 


6 


BELLAMY 


naturally enough, sworn at his wife, or “ any danged ’ooman 
as doesn’t knaw which side ter put the groove o’ th’ needle.” 

Walter did not know which side. He merely jumped to 
the conclusion that, as Mrs. Bellamy had undoubtedly set 
it in the wrong side, the reverse must be right. 

Next week he was put in a hole by some other woman, 
right off at Battle Green, sending her little boy to ask him 
to come and set her machine right for her also. 

Merely as a means of gaining time, he said he didn’t 
understand any but Singer’s machines, and by some happy 
chance it was not a Singer. On which he declared no other 
machines were worth bothering over, and so went his proud 
way, with his glory no wit diminished. 

He even got over the obvious commonness, the palpable 
home-madeness of his new knickers. 

“ Ma says as ’ow they’re good enough fur Edge, an’ I’m 
ter save mer tailor-mades till I go ter Stoke ter me gran’- 
mither’s.” 

Walter’s father and mother were both orphans. But once 
he invented a grandmother he had to stick to her. Though 
even then having created her himself, he was better off than 
other children with real grandparents, in that he could do as 
he pleased with her. Make her what he liked. Cause her 
to keep the biggest sweetie shop in Stoke, and wear purple 
roses in her hat ; and have a little boy who had grown up to 
be a big mill-owner, “ same as Morrison up street.” If he 
had known of any higher rank, the fictitious uncle should 
have had it. 

Morrison, the original founder of the firm where Walter’s 
father worked, was the wealthiest, and the oldest mill-owner 
in Edge, and used this fact as a sort of battering-ram, a 
species of steam-hammer, or punching-machine against all 
humble folk. Not that he really meant unkindly — as long 
as the workers kept their place, and he seemed to have a pri- 
vate understanding with the Almighty as to what that was 
— but because his very kindness was of such a quality as 
to cause the recipient to writhe with shame. 


CHAPTER II 


B ELLAMY senior was a weaver. His father and 
mother were both of French origin, and it was from 
his maternal grandmother that young Walter got his 
second name of Bonnet — pronounced Bonne. Hardly any 
one in Edge can speak French, but when a name is French 
they keep the accent of it pure: which they would not, or 
could not, do in Stoke. Just before young Walter left 
school, however, the study of that language was added to 
the already gorged curriculum ; and he took to it like a duck 
to water. But he did not tell his parents that he was learn- 
ing; he simply stuffed himself with words, or short sen- 
tences, and shot them out at the most impressive moments : 
regardless of the sense, which did not matter, for nobody 
knew what they meant. 

“ Comment vous portez-vous ? La soeur a mon bon canif , 
le tasse est sur la table. Le chat, le chien, le beurre, la 
maison.” And such like, all in a breath. 

When asked what that “ bletherim ” was about, he replied 
that it was French; and on being further pressed to know 
how he learnt it, merely answered coldly — with that odd 
lift of his chin, that blankly indifferent look in his dark 
eyes : — 

“ Oh ! it just cum.” 

The extraordinary part of it all was that no one ever 
doubted it was French as he said, though for all they knew 
it might have been absolute gibberish. But few people ever 
did doubt Bellamy : that was what made his pretensions so 
fatally easy. 

Only Jane really knew and understood him. She learnt 
French in the same class. But for all that she would not 
give him away: though she happened to be walking home 
from chapel with the Bellamys, when the conversation 
which I have recorded, took place. For Walter had no fear 
of being betrayed by Jane; clearly as he realised that she 
saw through him. 


7 


8 


BELLAMY 


Later, however, she took him to task. 

He was loitering about with a group of other boys at the 
dip of Little France, quite a long way from his own home 
and possible calls to Sunday school, when Jane passed him 
on her demure way back to tea: paused, looked back and 
called to him. 

“ Walter Bellamy ! I want ter speak ter yer.” 

“ A’right,” answered young Bellamy and joined her, not 
the least afraid of being laughed at for “ goin’ along o’ a 
soppy girl; ” his last boast being that he had learnt Ju-Jitsu 
from a Japanese nobleman who boarded with his grand- 
mother in Stoke: an assertion which he was never called 
upon to prove, the name being enough. 

“ Why didn’t thee tell thwar mither as thwart learnin’ 
French at school?” she demanded. 

At that time Jane was a slim person of eleven with her 
hair done in two tight plaits turned up and tied with a black 
bow at the back of either ear. If some impish hairdresser 
had done it thus while she slept on Saturday night it could 
not have been better ; for the whole of her face tilted up- 
wards, from the small creamy chin, the ridiculous nose and 
the dark lashes to the softly pencilled brows with the odd 
little twist at the ends of them. It was a face of which 
every curve said, “ kiss me ; ” and was then given the lie 
by the gravity of the wide grey eyes. 

Jane’s eyes burnt like two steady, never waning moons in 
her delicate, pastel tinted face. 

Walter Bellamy’s danced like Will-o’-th’-Wisps : — that 
is, when he was not practising his famous stare. 

“ Why should I tell ’em?” 

“ Why not? ’Tain’t honest” 

“ Honest, la ! ” That’s the way he said it : where the 
other boys would have said “ lor ” or “ Good Lord ! ” 

“ You’ll burn in Hell, Walter Bellamy ! sure as sure.” 

Jane stood facing him. Her small hands in their white 
cotton gloves clasped on the top of her umbrella, for it had 
threatened rain, her grave eyes full on him, her quaint little 
face holding both wonder and disapproval ; and yet withal 
an unwilling admiration. That sort of admiration which 
rendered her never quite free of Walter Bellamy, then or 
at any other time of her life. For despite — or perhaps be- 


BELLAMY 


9 

cause of — her understanding of him she was ceaselessly 
fascinated: knowing that his complete marvellousness had 
nothing to do with Divine Inspiration but, more wonderful 
still — was the outcome of sheer cleverness of an almost 
diabolical and most perilous kind. 

“ Burn in Hell, all shrivelled up for ever and ever, with- 
out so much as a drawp of warter ter quench thwar thirst.” 
She piled on the agony for her own edification and strength- 
ening, for somehow Heaven seemed to have grown rather 
thin with no Walter to share it. But Walter scarcely 
seemed to be listening. He was swinging to and fro on his 
toes and heels, his rather prominent dark eyes raised to the 
rough outline of moorland which hung frowning above 
them. 

“ It’s foine,” he said dreamily : “ with yer Sunday shoen 
on ter bend an’ swing yer foot. When once I’m in work 
I’ll never not wear clogs no more.” 

“ But why did yer go fur ter say it? ” persisted Jane ; still 
firm on the subject of the French language. 

“ Oh! Oi dwarn’t knaw. It’s queer, Jane:” he turned to 
her with an air of engaging candour ; “ everything as is 
really an’ truly, is that dull. An’ things that one gets out o’ 
one’s head — oh they’re different; they maekes ’un feel all 
a tiptoed up like these ’ere Sunday shoen.” 

“ But why didn’t yer say as the lady teacher taught you ? 
— What ’ull yer do now if yer get a prize, as she said yer 
’ud? Ye’ll be fine an’ caught there, Walter Bellamy.” 

“ Oi warn’t, I’ll put ’un back o’ chimney. Oi dwarn’t 
care fur prizes, silly books as no ’un wants fur ter read,” he 
answered loftily. Though the thought flicked him. What 
was the good of gaining a prize that one could not show? 
But for all that he had been right. It was a stupid thing 
for a boy who had once possessed a French grandfather and 
grandmother to sit down and learn the language out of a 
book like any one else. It was far more exciting to pretend 
that it had just “come” as a sort of divine influx, or was 
part of that something else which the French teacher had 
spoken of when Walter made one of his characteristic ges- 
tures with his hands. For a moment or two his mind fum- 
bled for the word, and then he got it — “ hereditary.” 

At first he thought of offering this new theory to Jane; 


10 


BELLAMY 


but at her next words : — “ To say it corned ! It beats me 
how folks believe yer!” he rejected the idea and returned 
to his original statement. 

“ It corned ! I said as how it corned, an’ it’s gospel truth ; 
lashins more corned than teacher ever learnt Oi, lashins an’ 
leavins!” He swung himself joyously to and fro on his 
toes — during the week-days so tightly imprisoned in brass- 
tipped wood : — “ ’Side that it corned into yed o’ Inspector 
ter send taecher, an’ taecher corned ter Edge. If she 
brought the French ter me, it corned; anyways it corned.” 
Jane’s head was reeling : — “ It corned as sure as that there 
fire corned when Abraham was shut off from offering up 
Isaac.” 

“ Walter Bellamy ! That there’s the Bible, ain’t yer 
’shamed o’ yer’sen ! ” 

But the boy’s eyes, which had been vaguely fixed on the 
heights, were suddenly filled with a purpose. It was the 
thought of Isaac bound upon the altar which did it ; for, as 
always, he had seen the whole thing in a mental flash. 
There were altar stones still- — not more than three miles 
away — on the height, where the Danes had offered up 
human sacrifice. 

“ Let’s go for a walk up along the Hanging Rock.” 

“ What are yer talkin’ on ? It’s three miles good, an’ it’s 
gone four now, close on tea-time.” 

“Who cares for tea?” retorted Walter, and flung off 
across the lower path of the churchyard: then threw over 
his shoulder : — “ you needn’t come if yer afear’d. I don’t 
want no silly ninnies wid me. There’s kirk-grims up along 
the Rocks.” 

Jane knew this. Knew also that in addition to kirk-grims 
there were h.ell-horses and headless riders who made a hor- 
ror of that wild moorland which overhung the peaceful 
town, with its thin film of Sabbath smoke. But for all that 
she followed. 

Jane never forgot that walk; sensing, for the first time, 
something wild and terrible in nature : alien to the monoto- 
nous, toil-ordered life of the little town. 

Walter Bellamy was touched by it also, but to a different 
tune : realising it as a setting to himself, a swirl of circling 


BELLAMY n 

wind-driven clouds in the midst of which he felt himself 
the hub. 

It was a long pull, all up hill. At first a suavely winding 
road, then a rough track, then a scramble up to the top of 
the great overhanging rocks which edge the moor, menacing 
the valley. 

By the time the two children topped them — Walter drag- 
ging Jane by the wrist, his chin high, his eyes ablaze, already 
living through all that he would have to tell to his school- 
fellows — the west was a flame of scarlet and gold, and the 
remainder of the sky a piled mass of purple and leaden grey 
clouds, which swept great shadows, like the advancing bat- 
talion of a divided host, across the moors. 

Walter had read the story of the struggle between Danes 
and Britains, in the history of Edge at the public library, and 
now his memory, snatching back at it, remoulded it to the 
present. The greater clouds, with their heavy massed shad- 
ows were the Danes, the light skirmishing shadows were the 
Britains — running low, skirling with the wind. And 
among these, now on one side, now on the other, the wild 
moor folk slid shrieking: the kirk-grims and goblins, the 
ghostly horse-men and hell-hounds, witches and war-locks : 
while one long hurrying shadow, heading straight towards 
where the children stood — poised upon the huge rock, be- 
neath which lay an infinite stretch of mist-haunted valley — 
there was the phantom coach, which plies nightly across the 
moor, in search of just such belated wanderers. 

“ It wur Clowes the tailor as told me ’o ’un : he saw ’un 
with his own eyes, he did : fair awful it was too. ’Ee, that 
’ud make yer yair stand on end fur sure, Jane Irwin. That 
’ud make yer throw a fit, it hid ! ” cried Walter, sing-songing 
above the wind, the crest of his dark hair swept back, erect 
on his forehead. “ ’Un wur drawn by six horses, an’ hound 
dogs ran along o’ it. An’ the man as draw ’un, he carried 
the reins in his one yand, an’ his yead under t’other arm — 
all bluggy it wur ; and his eyes glimming. ‘ Get ’ee up an’ 
’ave a ride/ he says ter Clowes : ‘ get ’ee up an’ ’ave a ride.’ 
What will yer do if he come an’ says that ter yer, Jane 
Irwin? Clowes he be a mon, a grown mon, an’ yet he 
throwed a fit he wur that skeered, an’ there he lay till morn- 


12 


BELLAMY 


in’. Gummy — but don’t Oi wish ’ee’d cum ter me, Oi’d 
not throw no fit, not Oi. If he’d come ter me now, and say 
’ave a ride along o’ Oi ” 

“ Fool — Walter Bellamy ! fool ! ” The chill wind beat 
upon little Jane: flattening out her white frock against her 
back. It was cold and strange up there on the height — 
just such a place as that to which Satan had led the Lord 
to tempt him — and there was something about Walter Bel- 
lamy which seemed terribly suited to the place, that crest of 
dark hair of his was almost a horn — but still her sense of 
logic held ; and after all what devil had there ever been with 
but one horn. 

“ How could ’un talk ter yer, yer great fool, or ter tailor 
Clowes neither, if his yead was under his yarm ? Such silli- 
ness ! ” 

Walter Bellamy leant forward: either he had whitened 
from the effect of his imagination, or the gathering twilight 
had sapped all the colour from his cheeks : — “ ’Un talks out 
o’ the yole whur — whur his yead wur chopped off,” he 
shrieked ; “ ’un makes a great round yole like this.” He 
opened his mouth, and drew it into a circle with stiffened 
lips. Then suddenly flung round towards the downward 
path. “ He’s cornin’ ! he’s cornin’ ! look behind yer, Jane, he’s 
cornin’,” he cried. And, wild with fear, without even wait- 
ing to look behind her, Jane followed him: scrambling and 
stumbling, falling and bruising hands and knees, picking her- 
self up and pushing on again. 

It was only Walter Bellamy’s foolishness; she knew it. 
But the minister had been preaching on Hell that very day 
— on the graves giving up their dead : and now — with the 
hurrying clouds, the wind, and gathering darkness — the 
moon seemed bursting with a fearsome pageant of past life. 

And this was not all. Walter Bellamy was frightened too. 

All at once his imagination had taken the bit between its 
teeth. The Death Coach was really there ; he could hear the 
wheels, the panting of the horses, the short yapping breath 
of the dogs, and catching Jane by the arm he dragged her on ; 
pulling her to her feet when she fell, his face white amid the 
darkness. For the whole moor was alive, and at their heels. 
The distorted thorn trees waving wild arms; the gorse 
bushes, hunched together, running low beneath their shields. 


BELLAMY 


13 

He was terrified, really terrified : yet with an exhilarating 
fear, which held in its heart a wave of triumph. 

No other boy in Edge had ever braved such a foe — for 
even then, still running, he forgot that he ran — confronted 
the headless driver: dared him to his oddly placed face: 
“ sauced ” him, without even a thought of throwing a fit. 

“ An’ Oi said ter ’un,” — Jane heard him next morning, 
holding forth in the school yard, to an admiring and awe- 
stricken audience : “ Oi dwarn’t want none o’ yer dirty old 
coaches — Oi ain’t got no time fur any o’ yer broken down 
owd mokes ; t’aint likely, when my own gran’maither, along 
at Stoke, has two motor-cars o’ ’er very own.” 

“An’ what did ’un say then, Wally? Tell us what ’un 
said then.” 

“ He didn’t not say nothing — he was fair sneeped. Him 
an’ his rotten old coach ! ” answered Walter contemptuously. 
Then his expression changed; he gave one furtive glance 
round, as if half afraid of what he was going to say, and his 
voice dropped ; “ but the chap inside ” 

“ Yer didna say that there wur no chap inside.” 

“ Oi can’t say everything all at once, can Oi, stupid ? ” 

“ Oi dwarn’t believe there was no chap. It’s all one o’ 
Wally Bellamy’s loys. Oi dwarn’t believe that ’ee never wur 
up the Rocks at all,” put in a scornful voice. 

“ Yer dwarn’t then,” Walter flung round with blazing 
eyes. “ Well yer just ask my maither; an’ ask owd Jimmy 
Clarke, an’ Maester Irwin as was cornin’ out wid lanterns ter 
look fur us. Jest yer ask ’un ” 

“ But tell us who was inside. Dwarn’t mind ’im, Wally. 
Tell us who was inside,” interrupted a chorus of voices. 

“ Oi’ll not be talkin’ ter folk as dwarn’t believe what Oi 
seys.” 

“ But us all believe. Dwarn’t thee mind ’un, dwarn’t yer 
listen to ’un, Wally. ’Oo was ’un inside? ” 

“ Well, Oi didn’t not see ’im over clear, he just spyed out 
o’ window. But he had horns on’ yead, all long an’ 
twisty ” 

“ Loike a cow ? ” 

“ No — them’s straight, silly ! All twisty like a ram’s : ” 
Walter gave a descriptive gesture with his hands as he spoke. 
“ An’ his face was all pale and shiny. An’ ’ee seys ” 


14 


BELLAMY 


“ What did ’ee say? Tell we what ’un said, Wally.” 

“ He said «— 4 I beg your pardon, Maister Bellamy/ ’ee 
says — 1 moy mistake/ ’ee says, says ’ee. ‘ It wur another 
boy as Oi wur arter.’ ” 

“ Waat boy ? ” The little ring of listeners, glancing anx- 
iously round at each other with a faint attempt to grin, gave 
a thin, tittering laugh of pure nervousness, as Walter paused 
— bent his head a little, raised his eyes, and stared gloomily 
round. Then spoke ; the words dropping out of him slowly, 
one by one. 

“A boy o’ Edge — a boy who ain’t half a mile, nor a 
quarter neither from ’ere.” 

“ Which boy? ” it was a mere whisper, as their eyes fol- 
lowed Walter Bellamy’s from face to face : his very slowness 
setting them all on edge. 

It was very well done — quickly 1 and yet effectively 
thought out — for it was not until the dark eyes had scrutin- 
ised every face in the closely pressed ring of boys, that they 
reached that of the one who had dared to doubt him. 

Then the stare fixed and hardened. And, raising his 
hand, Walter pointed for a moment in silence: flung round 
upon his heel, pushed his way through the awed circle, and 
marched, head in air, back to the schoolroom. 


CHAPTER III 


I T was Anniversary Day, and the Primitive Methodist 
chapel — standing alongside the great mill which backed 
Walter Bellamy’s home, permeating all he did and 
thought with its whirr and hum — was packed to suffoca- 
tion. 

The heat was stifling. The place reeked of humanity; 
the women in their tight best gowns, the men in broadcloth, 
diffusing that peculiar sickly odour which hangs about cloth- 
ing which has been put away warm and kept from the air. 

The back of the chapel, always dim, was as dark as though 
it were the evening service, for a heavy thunder-storm was 
brewing, and the sky outside black. From where he sat 
Walter Bellamy could see nothing but row upon row of 
ghostly white faces which might have been heads just cut off 
and balanced along the backs of the pews. Or rows of beads 
hung on a string ; or merely blobs of candle grease. 

Walter’s imagination played round the idea. If they were 
cut off they were not beheaded, just sliced from the front; 
for there appeared to be no depth or back to them. At the 
best they were merely masks. 

Oddly enough while the white-faced men showed out viv- 
idly, the red ones were scarcely seen. Indeed, if he had not 
known where they all sat he could not have believed they 
were there ; for they had completely dropped out : breaking 
the continuity by their apparent absence. 

To the right of the preacher’s desk was the organ, to the 
left the choir. The light was clearer here and oddly livid, 
showing up the flowers in the girls’ hats ; warming the faces 
of the young men — already pallid and stooping from the 
looms — into an appearance of ruddiness; while full in the 
light, banked up in front of the preacher like a parterre of 
flowers, sat the children. 

Little girls in white dresses, run with pink and blue rib- 
ands ; the tiniest round and rosy, the elder delicately exotic ; 

i5 


i6 


BELLAMY 


true children of an indoor race, with fine pale skins and red 
mouths, thrown like a pomegranate blossom against their 
white faces. Fair hair — light brown, golden, flaxen, sandy, 
auburn — the whole punctuated by just one wistful dark 
face, and one pair of large dark eyes, shaded at either side 
by curtains of dark hair — and culminating — as though 
nature had run the gamut of golds, and reached, at last, 
something so fair that it was just not silver — in Jane Ir- 
win ; her hair a shade lighter than her piquant upturned face, 
with its grave, grey eyes. 

On the same platform, to the right of the girls, were the 
boys. Upheld by the mere fact that they were boys: and 
by nothing else. With no pride of dress, no beauty or dig- 
nity. Self-conscious, and shamefaced ; save for Walter Bel- 
lamy, triumphantly at ease in their midst. 

He was wearing a ridiculous costume, which — in the cut 
of the open front, showing a white dicky embroidered with 
an anchor — had evidently begun by thinking itself a sailor 
suit : then debouched into a pleated tunic, which was an in- 
sult to any boy of ten ; the whole thing being topped with a 
celluloid collar and plaid tie. 

But no absurdity of apparel could make Walter absurd. 
He was too vital. It was as if his personality was a quiv- 
ering flame which dazzled the eye, held the attention; and, 
even with the most trivial, left no thought for dress. But, 
after all, the whole congregation was absurd in its ridiculous 
lack of congruity. The angles of the women’s hats at odds 
with their noses, and the disfiguring seams of the men’s 
coats, the super-torturing of their poor bodies, already suf- 
ficiently tortured by the needs of civilisation. 

From where he sat Walter could see Tom Rice, who was 
now forty, and who had spent the whole of his long day, 
since he was sixteen, in “ picking ” : sitting on a little bench 
bent double over a stretched skein of silk, removing every 
morsel of loose fluff with a pair of tweezers. 

His eyes were very red, showing the only colour in his 
face ; his chest scarcely the span of an ordinary man’s palm. 
Walter Bellamy carrying on the comparison of the blob of 
wax visualised him as similar to one of those nobbly, atten- 
uated formations which run down the side of a candle, 
caricaturing just such a man naked. 


BELLAMY 


17 


His thoughts began to run wild into all sorts of grotesque 
imagery. A feeling of triumphant elation bubbled up in 
him like a geyser. The feeling — as he often declared to 
Jane, the one intimate he allowed himself — that he must 
do something or “ bust.” An impulse most apt to beset 
him when others were holding the front place on the stage 
of his little life : not because he felt hurt or slighted, but be- 
cause of his immense sense of superiority. 

Now it was the preacher — a speciality imported in honour 
of the day — whom he felt convinced he could better. A 
swart visaged man, with greedy mouth and thick lips which 
he smacked over the sins of others : mounting eternal dam- 
nation with a sucking inward breath. A long drawn 
“A — a — ah — ” of relish. Walter’s ire rose at every 
word, he could have shot the whole congregation for their 
groaning “ ayes.” To be taken in by such a poor perform- 
ance. 

“ Cum — dwarn, oh Lord — ” prayed the minister in a 
rasping Staffordshire accent. “ Cum dwarn an’ witness us 
poor worms how us doth writhe and torment oursen under 
the burden o’ our sins; every mon an’ ’ooman, every gurl 
an’ lod among us, bound straight fer ’Ell excepting Thwar 
wilt cum down an’ save us. Ter ’Ell where the wurm dieth 
not an’ the fire be not quenched.” 

“ Aye — aye — good Lord, cum down.” 

Walter squirmed. Let them pray. If the Lord were the 
sort to allow them to fizzle through Eternity — a mental 
picture of his mother toasting kippers on a fork flashed 
through his brain — then He was not likely to be touched 
by any of their “ yowling.” Rather to be pleased as Walter 
himself would have been. Saying as Walter would have 
said : — “ I’ll larn yer.” 

“ We’ve gotten all us desarves, more nor us desarves ; an’ 
yet us goes a’whoring arter the scarlet ’ooman o’ sin. ’Er 
as is dyed in a vat o’ sin ; crimson as blood : ’er we follows.” 

“ Aye — aye ! ” cried the worshippers with a long-drawn 
moaning assent : swaying themselves from side to side, lean- 
ing forward with their elbows on their knees. Again it 
seemed to Walter that the pews were hung with strings of 
beads, of which someone had tweaked the end, setting them 
all a’swing. 


i8 


BELLAMY 


It was getting very dark, but the minister’s prayer was 
extemporary, and no one thought of a light. 

“ Purify us, dear Lord, purify us. Scour our yearts, dear 
Lord, that we may be purified o’ our sins.” 

“Aye, aye, purify us, good Lord.” 

“ That is all that us seeken. That yer come right down 
’ere along o’ we, an’ purify we ; even as th’ yarn be purified 
in the washin’.” 

“Aye! aye!” 

“ We dwarn’t ask fur riches . . .” 

“ Naw, naw ” 

“ We dwarn’t ask fur power.” 

“ Naw, naw.” 

“ We’ve gotten all we wants, more than we wants o’ Thy 
bounty. We dwarn’t ask Thee for nwart ? dear Lord, as th’ 
world can gie us.” 

“ It’s a loy!” 

The children were crouched on the platform, bent for- 
ward like their elders — elbows on knees. Though the girls 
had been laughing at each other from among their falling 
tresses, and through their laced fingers, and the boys play- 
ing “ footy ” and fidgeting, it had all been outward decorum 
till Walter Bellamy’s voice broke the silence, with its amaz- 
ing declaration: 

“ It’s a loy ! ” 

“ ’Ush, ’ush! Yark at ’im!” The white faces swung 
forward each punctuated by an open mouth. 

Walter thrilled. Once more he held the stage. He flung 
out his hands almost into the faces of the two boys who still 
crouched on either side of him. 

“ We ain’t got what we want, an’ we ain’t contented, else 
we wouldn’t not be tryin’ fur better jobs. Us wants great 
foine ’ouses like Morrison’s, an’ motor-cars an’ foine clothes 
an’ ter go ter the picture pallises every noight. Gawd 
dwarn’t give us all we wants. ’E don’t do ’alf as it’s up ter 
Yim ter do, so there! Why ’e even let’s it rain a’ Sun- 
days ! ” 

A sibilant hush swept through the chapel, broken by a 
subdued crackle of exclamations. “ Lord a’ mercy. The 
lod’s daft. ’Oo is it? Walter Bellamy — Walter Bellamy.” 
The high whisper of his name was like wine to Walter. 


BELLAMY 


19 

“The lod’s daft! Turn ’im out. Where’s ’is mither? 
Oh, Lord, oh, Lord — • it’s devil for sure. Devil’s in lod.” 

The excitement roused by the minister’s prayer had been 
merely mechanical to this. 

Then suddenly when the tension was at its height the 
storm burst. There was a flame of lightning; a sudden 
crash of thunder and several women screamed. 

Walter could see his mother’s face illumined by the flash. 
It looked like a whisp of overwrung dish-cloth. What was 
the good of saying God gave every one everything that they 
could wish for ; when the silk was so rotten that it broke at 
every stroke of his father’s loom, and his mother was al- 
ways complaining, and the shop was full of stench and flies ; 
and Jane’s brother had that sore on his hip, and his — Wal- 
ter’s — one penny had slipped down between the cracks of 
the Sunday-school floor. 

“We dwarn’t get nawt we wants, so what’s the good o’ 
yowlin’ an’ pertendin’ ? ” There was another flash of light- 
ning, another roar of thunder, following like a Greek chorus 
on Walter’s words. 

The choirmaster, who sat on the front seat to lead the 
Singers, dived beneath the rail, and began to climb the tem- 
porary stand ; pushing his way among the children who were 
too engrossed — turning in their seats and staring up at the 
rebel — to move aside for him. 

There was still a clear moment. Walter Bellamy stood 
on his tiptoes swinging joyously to and fro in his Sunday 
boots. 

“ We ain’t got nothing we want for all our yowlin’ and 
prayin’. An’ we won’t get nothing we want. I’ve asked 
God scores upon scores o’ times fur a bike. An’ what der 
yer think ’E said ? ‘ Go ter ’Ell — go ter ’Ell.’ ” 

The boy’s voice had risen to a triumphant chant, he was 
drunken with his own imagery. 

At that moment the choirmaster got him. First by his 
leg, then by one arm ; but he wrenched himself momentarily 
free, his bony shoulder, in its drab singlet, out between the 
sailor’s blouse and the dicky. 

“ An’ now Oi’m goin’ fur ter ask Satan — Satan ! ” 

The choirmaster had him. Tucked his head beneath his 
arm, nearly suffocating him : dragged him from the stand — 


20 


BELLAMY 


mowing down the parterre of flower-like children in his 
progress — then along the side aisle to the door. 

But once there, Wally, by the simple process of biting his 
captor’s arm, got his head loose. 

“ Satan. Three cheers fur auld Satan,” he shrieked : and 
could be heard shrieking as he was propelled violently down 
the stone stairs and kicked into the street ; where the sudden 
rain poured in a deluge. 

Any one else would have ended their career as the Infant 
Samuel once and for all by such an exhibition. It was like 
young Bellamy to throw away all the patient work of 
months. But it was also like his luck that the performance 
merely strengthened, instead of weakening, his position. 

All through that service the people had scant thought left 
for the preacher. They were immersed in terror: shaken 
to their depths by Walter’s outburst. Possessed moreover 
by a fearful admiration and wonder at the thought that the 
devil had actually entered into one of their own : torn him, 
then and there before their very faces. They would never 
have put it into words, but it seemed to them that Walter 
Bellamy must be a person of exceptional importance to be 
thus distinguished. 

The minister spoke of it in his discourse. 

“ For that one o’ our members has been torn by the 
Devil — -like the Gadarene swine, yurling dwarn a steep 
place into the sea — we offer, dear Lord, our prayer an’ 
supplication ; wrestlin’ fur the soul o’ this lod, clawed upon 
by Beelzebub.” 

It wasn’t quite literal. Walter had not thrown himself 
down, the choirmaster had dragged him. But the honour 
was obvious; for few people were mentioned in the dis- 
course until they were dead. 


CHAPTER IV 


L ATER on, between the afternoon and evening serv- 
ices, the minister visited the boy’s mother; and in- 
terviewed Walter, who had been captured and locked 
in his own room. 

Mrs. Bellamy, in the best parlour on the first floor, fidg- 
eted to and fro; straightening her antimacassars: settling 
the curtains : pulling the blind up and down ; while Mrs. Ir- 
win, who was there to offer consolation, clung helplessly to 
Jane’s cool little hand; and Mrs. Clarke with her bonnet- 
strings unloosed, her knees wide apart and her hands upon 
them, sat in massive crimson silence. Wally had once said 
he could carve as good a woman as Mrs. Clarke out of a 
beet ; and he had not been far wrong. 

They could hear no voices, only a trampling up and 
down, and &n occasional muffled bang, which was the min- 
ister kneeling — carefully on the mat. 

“ He’s wrastlin’ with the Lord fur sure,” breathed little 
Mrs. Irwin, her pale face twitching, the tears streaming 
down her face. 

“ Never mind, Mither. He loves wrastlin’ does Wally,” 
whispered Jane reassuringly. 

“ Ter think o’ flash an’ blood o’ mine bein’ so took,” 
whimpered Mrs. Bellamy, raising the blind again. The 
storm, hardly sufficient to really clear the air, had passed, 
and the hard sun shone full into the room; revealing the 
threadbare pattern of the carpet, the saddle-bag furniture 
— hazed over with dust — the fly-flecked mirror, its frame 
swathed in yellow tarlatan, the sagging paper and silver cup 
that Bellamy had won for sprinting in his youth. “ Ter 
think o’ th’ lod breakin’ out like that, after all th’ teachin’ 
an’ talkin’ as I’ve given ’im. Never a moment yome but 
I’m sneeping on yim.” 

“ It was Satan fur sure,” ventured Mrs. Irwin. 

** Yer right there. It wern’t no ordinary naughtiness that 
21 


22 


BELLAMY 


there. It was Satan as corned an’ tore ’im. Ain’t it just 
like my luck ter ’ave a son as Satan comes right down to ? ” 
She spoke with an air of proud pathos. “ I shouldn’t won- 
der if it wur all writ in print in the mag’zin’ next month. 
Anniversary Sunday an’ all.” 

“ Them who God loves ’ee chastens,” breathed Mrs. Ir- 
win consolingly. 

“ I’d chasten ’im if ’ee were yon o’ moine ! ” breathed Mrs. 
Clarke. 

“ Oh ! yer would, would yer. Thank ye fur th’ ’int Mrs. 
Clarke. But if it ain’t a rude question,” Mrs. Bellamy 
pulled down the blind with a jerk which expressed her feel- 
ings ; “ may I ask if the devil ’as ever directly concarned 
’imsen aben any one o’ yourn? Enterin’ inter ’im, same as 
though ’ee were a carakter out o’ the Bible: taeken ’im an’ 
tearin’ ’im a’fore th’ yole congregation ? ” 

“ Aye it wur Satan fur sure,” said Mrs. Irwin, her small 
face quivering afresh at the very thought of a quarrel. 
“ ’Twern’t noways Walter’s fault. I knew as something 
was goin’ fur ter yappen ; with the goose flesh all down my 
spine, fair awful it was.” 

“ If it wur naughtiness, same as with other children,” 
went on Mrs. Bellamy proudly ; “ it ’ud be different ; naught- 
iness yer could deal with.” She was standing on tiptoe be- 
fore the paper-filled fire-place; and lifting her apron she 
pulled a corner of it tight over one finger, moistened it with 
her tongue, and removed one of the most prominent fly- 
marks from the mirror : — “ But when the devil ’imself , 
loike a rampin’ roarin’ lion comes down to the only son of a 

poor ’ooman, as might as well be a widow Sakes alive, 

what’s that ? ” she added sharply, as there was a terrific 
bump in the room above, shaking the walls, setting the glass 
lustres all a jangle. 

For a moment they gathered in silence : filled with horrid 
pictures of the minister beating the devil out of Wally with 
his head on the floor. They had all risen, but Jane was the 
first to return to her place, the little beaded stool she had 
occupied at her mother’s feet. 

“ It’s only Wally,” she said, then sighed. “ It must be 
close on tea-time, an’ it’s drefful ’ot in ’ere.” She knew 
Wally. Whatever happened Wally would be all right. 


BELLAMY 


23 

The bump had been Walter Bellamy dropping on his 
knees: bending to the powers that be. Generously, super- 
latively, testifying; calling upon the Lord. Confessing to 
sins that made the minister’s hair stand on end. He had 
gloried in the “ wrastling.” Into no other boy in Edge had 
seven devils ever entered; he could feel them all capering 
round inside him. 

As Mr. Drage wrestled with him he flipped them off one 
by one, as it were, from the tips of his fingers: could see 
them plain as plain in all their blackness and wonderful 
agility. 

In the three-storied church of St. Francis at Assisi there 
is a fresco of the devils being driven up and out from the 
chimneys of the town where the Saint dwelt. Walter Bel- 
lamy might have painted just such another picture had he 
possessed the craft, for never did devils appear more real ; 
though all the same his subconscious self was doubled up 
with laughter at the very idea. 

He would have gone on “ wrastling ” if it had not been 
that he wanted his tea : while it seemed that the minister was 
getting things altogether too much his own way. So he 
dropped to his knees with a will — as he did everything else. 
Such a sudden drop that he fell forward upon his hands; 
and the last devil tore him and came out of him, and went 
up the chimney. 

No wonder that the ceiling of the room below, the very 
walls were shaken. In a couple of days his knees were 
black and blue with bruises. But when Mrs. Bellamy prof- 
fered vinegar and brown paper, the Infant Samuel shook 
his head bravely. 

“ They don’t yurrt, thank yer, Mit-her,” he said, with a 
beautiful patience. And indeed if they had hurt ten times 
as much he could have borne it, for no other boy in Edge 
could show such bruises, such supernatural scars. 

Presently they went down to the parlour, and Mrs. Bel- 
lamy brought in tea. And they all sat round and held their 
cups in their hands and spread their handkerchiefs over 
their knees — just like the gentry. 

Walter was very pale ; for the histrionic art took it out of 
him, as it will out of any one who practises it with such 
abandonment. But he allowed himself to be coaxed to eat 


BELLAMY 


24 

a good many slices of bread and butter and cake, and drank 
three cups of tea; while Mrs. Irwin was tearfully tender 
over him, the minister visibly yearned, and all Mrs. Bel- 
lamy’s scolding served to bring out the wonder of the whole 
affair. Only Mrs. Clarke said nothing; while Jane sat si- 
lent on her little stool, gazing up at Walter with a sort of 
maternal indulgence. 

Walter was made like that. He must seem to be very 
much better or very much worse than any one else. All 
men folk told lies. But Walter’s lies were beyond the or- 
dinary; it was wonderful how he did it. She was his one 
accredited friend and was proud of the fact; but though 
she understood him to the very innermost source of his 
being, his cleverness never failed to amaze her. 

Presently they all went downstairs where they found Mr. 
Bellamy in the back kitchen, having a jovial meal with a 
cup of water and a piece of dry bread. 

“ So you’ve been tacklin’ ’im, ’ave yer, the young var- 
mint ! ” he said to the preacher, and pulling the boy towards 
him tweaked his ear. “A limb — that’s what ’ee is,” he 
declared with immense pride. “ A bit o’ a dwarf like ’is 
father was a’fore ’im. An’ loike, as I ’ave no doubt, yer 
was too, Meyster, in yer young days,” he added, and winked 
at the minister. “ Though this ’ere beats creation ’ee do : 
chronic ’ee is.” 

“ Such a way to go on,” complained Mrs. Bellamy later, 
as she brought down the tea-things, and started on a per- 
functory washing-up. “ Such a way ter speak ter yer bet- 
ters. An’ that boy as ’as nearly worn the yeart an’ soul 
out o’ me. ’E won’t respect you any more for all yer spoil- 
in’ when ’ee comes ter be growed up. Familiarity breeds 
contempt ; there’s no truer sayin’ ever said nor that.” 

“ Well, there’s not much as is bred without it, me lass, 
that’s sure ! ” retorted her husband. And lounging to the 
door he stood there with his hands in his pockets smoking 
and coughing and chuckling. For there was no doubt about 
it, he was still a bit of a dog, was Bellamy. 

That evening Walter insisted on going to chapel again; 
where he was the observed of all observers, and made a 
fresh sensation by turning deadly white and fainting, so 
that he had to be dragged out once more. 


BELLAMY 


25 

“I'm just about full up o’ that there Walter Bellamy,” 
remarked some cynic ; though for the most part the congre- 
gation were sympathetic, vicariously enjoying Walter’s ill- 
health. 

But there was nothing feigned about this second attack. 
Walter could not have been more wrung if the devils had 
been real; or he had truly believed them to be real. Be- 
sides the chapel was hotter than ever. 

At the door he was given over to his father, who carried 
him the short distance to their own house, then lowered him 
panting : 

“ Canst thee walk upstairs, lod? ” he asked anxiously. 

Walter thought he could, and managed it ; though his legs 
felt curiously heavy and limp. Once there, however, he 
was undressed by his father, and lying in bed with the cool 
night air blowing full over his face, soon revived. 

“ Is there anything thee’d fancy, lod ? ” asked Bellamy, 
bending over him. 

“ Pobs. Heppen Oi might be able fur ter tacke some 
pobs,” breathed Walter. 

“ Oi doubt but the milk’s a’ gone, with a’ them folks to 
tay,” answered Bellamy sadly. “ An’ if it ain’t it’ull be 
turned on us with the thunder an’ all.” 

Walter lay back and sighed resignedly. But the next 
moment he spoke again, in a detached voice as though the 
matter were nothing to him. “ Rouse’s just down Buxton 
Road keeps cows,” he said ; “ an’ milk dwarn’t turn inside 
the bastes.” 

After a moment’s hesitation his father took the hint, and 
went off and got the milk; made the sop, far better and 
more quickly than his wife could have done, and brought it 
up to the boy in a blue and white striped bowl. 

Walter submitted to have a coat wrapped round his shoul- 
ders and sat up in bed to eat the bread and milk with an 
air of gentle resignation. Then lay back and let his father 
cover him up. 

“ Ye’ll stay with me, Feyther : Oi’m not to say over well,” 
he pleaded. And Bellamy stayed, perched on the edge of 
the bed, one arm round the pillow and one hand clasped in 
his son’s. 

The warm food had been very comforting. Walter was 


26 


BELLAMY 


feeling that strangely peaceful feeling, as of a new birth, 
which comes to one after any great stress or faintness. 

He stretched out his little body very straight with a sense 
of exquisite ease. The day had been well spent ; filled with 
a glory which lingered in his mind like the clash of cymbals, 
the blare of trumpets. But now was the time of pleasant 
peace, and he had leisure to think of others. 

“ Be the stuff at the mill any better, Feyther?” 

“ Naw, naw, me lod, not ter say any better. But things 
moyght be wurse. Oh yes, they moyght be wurse; we 
moyght be dead for instance ! ” he declared cheerfully ; as 
though his continued existence were something to be thank- 
ful for, though why it would be hard to say. Indeed it was 
marvellous to reflect what well springs of life there must 
have been in him that he could retain any semblance of 
“ dogginess ” after a life spent over, encompassed by, and 
running out with, an endless length of Prussian binding. 

He had started in Morrison’s at five, as a “ runner.” 
Then at eleven graduated to the weaving sheds; and the 
binding had got him. Drab and black and white and grey, 
so many gross yards each day, something like a yard a min- 
ute all counted. 

Some of the men in his mill wove lettered coat-hangers. 
Their life was delirium of variety in comparison with his. 
But when once you get on the Prussian binding you are use- 
less for the Jacquard looms; for it eats out your mind as 
a weevil will eat out a nut, you lose the habit of any 
thought of concentration beyond that needful for the re- 
placing of the .spools, knotting up the ends. 

The only peace and quiet that a man got for thinking was 
when the warps ran out, and he had to wait — without any 
pay — two or three days, sometimes a week or more for 
fresh ones. And then his mind was engrossed with ques- 
tions as to how to pay the rent and get the next meal. 

Now they were on at a bad lot of mercerised cotton and 
poor silk “ up Morrison’s.” Stuff which broke so constantly 
that Bellamy earned less than he had done in his apprentice- 
ship. Besides, he was consumptive, and always coughing. 
But for all this, his good spirits were indomitable. 

Walter took after him, but with all the pregnant differ- 
ence of the newer generation. Bellamy senior was cheerful 


BELLAMY 


27 


because he made the best of a bad job. Walter because he 
was determined to rise above the bad job; to trample those 
who made it under his feet : to live and be happy. Not 
merely content, but joyously happy — by foul means if it 
were not possible by fair. He could not have put it into 
words ; but this was really the secret of his declaration that 
he meant to ask Satan for a “ bike ” if God would not give 
him one. 

After a time his father tiptoed away, believing him asleep. 
But when he had gone Walter opened his eyes and lay for 
a long while staring up at the open skylight and square of 
deep indigo sky, filled with an immense contentment. 

Not for a single moment had he any sense of self-reproach 
for having deceived every one. To use his own expression 
he had “ made them sit up.” They enjoyed the stir and ani- 
mation: if he was anything he was a benefactor. For 
never, at any time of his life, was Walter consciously im- 
moral. Fie was simply non-moral. Or, rather, he was like 
an actor who carries every detail of his art into his own 
life : with such completeness that often enough he was hon- 
estly unable to distinguish between the true and the false. 
If there could be a charlatan by birth such was Walter Bon- 
net Bellamy. 


CHAPTER V 


W HEN Walter Bellamy was eight he added to the 
family finances — which were low for they were 
still on at bad material “ up Morrison’s ” — by 
taking out papers. He started to the station at seven each 
morning, in time to meet the train. Raced up the hill to 
the town: went his rounds: got back home at eight thirty, 
often later; and just had time to swallow his breakfast be- 
fore the bell started ringing, when he had to bolt off, half 
across the town, to school. After school he took round 
parcels for his mother; not very big parcels; for people 
who got their stores at Bellamy’s usually bought in half- 
pennyworths, but still with his home-lessons, it did not leave 
him much time for himself. 

But from his mother he had inherited a big, strongly built 
frame, and from his father a Gallic wiriness, and an indom- 
itable spirit. That is till he got what he wanted, when his 
mother’s dust and ashes nature, which had not left his char- 
acter entirely untouched, gained the ascendency. 

Bellamy senior was a wonder. He had lived fifteen years 
with Mrs. Bellamy — who possessed a faculty for annihi- 
lating all signs of joy with a long drawn-out stream of com- 
plaints, like a dirty dish-cloth drawn over a plate — and yet 
he contrived to retain an air of blithe insouciance, along 
with a perfectly innocent habit of winking at every pretty 
girl he saw. His father had been absolutely English in ap- 
pearance and thought, but James Bellamy himself had taken 
a light-hearted leap back through all the chill barriers of 
English blood. By rights he ought to have worn a big black 
tie and turned-down collar ; and lived with a little gay mis- 
tress in a gay little apartment in the very heart of Paris. 
But it was clearly a case of thwarted reversion to type, and 
thus he lived — over a small general shop — with a wife 
who was almost terribly respectable, and drank very inferior 
beer instead of good red wine. 

28 


BELLAMY 


29 

It is true that by the time Walter began to take round 
papers Bellamy was already dying, though only just forty. 
But that was not his wife’s fault so much as the misfortune 
of the late Mrs. Bellamy in having to go out to work up to 
the very week that James — who was her eighth child — was 
born. 

Moreover she had been working at warping, which is a 
twisting, straining sort of an occupation for any woman; 
and in consequence James’ internal machinery had never 
been all it quite might be. Then, not long after Walter was 
born, he caught a cold which settled on his lungs ; as colds 
seem to do in Edge; which despite all its charm and the 
clear moorland air which sweeps it, has the second largest 
death-rate from consumption of any town in England. 

People are getting anxious about it. Already there is a 
sanitarium which will hold four men — and they are talk- 
ing of one for women. Some time — in the golden age 
which is forever as far to seek as the end of the rainbow — 
they may think of starting things at the right end : prevent- 
ing instead of patching. 

When he was eleven Walter Bellamy lost his father. 
Neighbours said it might have been worse, because he had 
worked to the very end ; and Mrs. Bellamy had managed 
to keep her weekly pennies paid into the burial club, right 
up to date. It was the one thing in which she had ever 
shown any real persistence. Then, there was the shop; 
though to be sure the mistress of it was struggling in a mire 
of debt and the wholesale people becoming more pressing 
each week. 

But on the other hand, as if to balance things, Walter had 
just passed his labour examination, and put in half of each 
week at the mill, and half at school, while he still managed 
to take the papers round before breakfast. 

It was not so bad in the summer but it was cruel in the 
winter, when the cold winds slashed their way up the nar- 
row streets, and snicked at him round the corners. 

However, it did not last long: for, having reached the ma- 
ture age of twelve, he went into the mill on full time, as a 
runner — or “ helper ” to use the technical term. 

And though this was not so bad in the winter : in the sum- 
mer it was little short of hell. 


BELLAMY 


30 

Indeed running, the process by which hand-twisted but- 
ton-hole silk is made, is not a pretty thing. I doubt if it has 
even been shown to any Royal Personages on their progress 
through a silk mill. The masters, themselves, make as if 
to disregard it; for they do not pay, or employ, the boys 
themselves : the twisters do this — though there is allowance 
made for it in their wages. 

The business takes place in a very long room, or loft — 
commonly called “ the shades ” — where the twisters stand 
at one end, each with a wheel, rather like the steering wheel 
of a ship, set round with little hooks to which he fastens the 
double, triple or quadruple strands of silk ; while his helper 
or runner, carries an equal number of spools threaded on 
to a wooden stick. 

With this in his hand he runs to the far end of the loft 
and loops each silken thread over a peg, set in a species of 
low wooden screen — or cross as it is called — till both his 
screen and the twister’s wheel are full. 

Then the twister winds as if for dear life, letting his wheel 
— which has a grooved rail, of some three or four feet set 
in the floor so that it shall have some give, though twisting 
the silk very tightly — move slightly forward with him. 

Directly it is taut, as it is in a moment, the boy runs for- 
ward with the loop in turn. And the twister, still winding, 
runs the silk on to big spools, set on a horizontal rod before 
him. 

The boy must run very fast, just as fast as the twister can 
turn his wheel, and that is with a concentrated fierce rapid- 
ity. For it is only by doing this business at a tremendous 
rate that the silk will twist exactly as the best tailors like to 
have it. 

If the boy does not run as fast as the man winds, the 
thread tightens too quickly and breaks. If he stops the man 
at the wheel must stop too : then there are words. 

He runs with bare feet, for no one could run rapidly or 
surely enough with shoes. He runs in his shirt and trousers 
because the work is terribly exhausting: and when it is hot 
he runs in his trousers only. From six o’clock in the morn- 
ing till half-past five at night, with half an hour for break- 
fast and an hour for dinner. Through all the long day he 
runs, panting like a dog. 


BELLAMY 


3i 

Occasionally, if there is a slack moment while the twister 
is fixing his stands, he flies at a frame over which tresses of 
silk are stretched, divides them up and ties them, all with an 
incredible quickness of touch. 

But there are not many such moments : he is there to run ; 
and he runs. Ceaselessly to and fro: padding out the hours 
with his bare feet ; the days, months, years, till at sixteen, or 
thereabouts, he is an old man ; with bent and distorted legs. 

At first Walter thought it was great fun. It is natural for 
a boy to run, above all to run barefooted. When his twister, 
Jimmy Clarke the elder — husband of the inarticulate Mrs. 
Clarke whom he had likened to a beet — cursed him, Wal- 
ter shrieked back at him all the French words he had ever 
learnt: which did just as well as the best curses and made 
the men laugh. They were not a bad lot, but the whole 
thing got on their nerves ; the tense rapidity of the winding, 
the pad of the running boys. 

Walter ran well. His father had been a fine sprinter in 
his youth, and he took after him. Besides, if he runs for a 
twister a boy must run in good form, with his elbows and 
chest well forward. For should he dip or lurch there is no 
firmness in the pull ; and the twist is slack and uneven. 

He started on a June morning. The air was sweet with 
the scent of hay, for the fields enfold the town with dewy 
freshness. His mother had got up and made him a cup of 
tea and cut him a butty before he left home, carrying his 
clogs in his hands ; feeling very much of a man, all alive with 
eagerness. 

The glinting lines of silk drew him. He ran as light- 
footed, as full of promise and joy as the dawn; with his 
crest of dark hair erect above his brow. He essayed fancy 
steps when he danced back to the cross with the slackened 
strands. To do nothing but run, and run, drawn forward by 
a humming wheel and a gleaming thread of silk. What a 
gorgeous way of earning a livelihood! 

As the sun rose he shed his shirt. Then, impelled by the 
very madness of joy, his breeches also, and ran naked; 
flashing through the golden lights and velvety shadows of 
the dusty place like a young Greek god, while the men 
laughed and applauded. 

But by the time he got home to breakfast something seemed 


BELLAMY 


32 

to have gone wrong at the pit of his stomach. The wheel 
was turning in his head and he could not eat ; only drink the 
tea which his mother had kept warm, over from the early 
morning. 

He put his clogs on to walk back to the mill, for his feet 
were tender and burning. But still he went gaily, with a 
feeling of rather light-headed exaltation. 

The hours till dinner-time seemed endless. At first he 
longed for them to pass. Then he grew to believe that they 
never would pass. Finally not to care whether they did or 
not. Once when he was a tiny child he had gone out with 
his mother for a day’s charing, and seen her dress a chicken 
ready for cooking. She had put her hand inside the bird; 
found some tendon or sinew, and pulling firmly on it, drawn 
out the entire entrails. 

Gradually it grew to seem to Walter as if Jimmy Clarke 
and the silken threads drew him in the same way. 

When he ran to the far end of the loft to throw the slack 
loops round the pegs there was some relief ; he felt as if he 
might be getting away. 

But directly he started to run back the taut threads 
plucked him fair in the middle. Far away his legs were run- 
ning — for he could hear the pad, pad of his feet — and his 
head was still upon his shoulders, for sometimes he caught 
the sound of his own voice, very high and shrill. 

But for all that it was only his inward parts which 
counted, drawn forward as they were far before the rest of 
him; and again and again he felt like screaming for Jimmy 
Clarke to stop winding and let him go. 

But always he reached the wheel and the thread slack- 
ened just in time to save him from disgrace. Though even 
then the relief seemed almost more than he could bear, and 
he trembled from head to foot while the sweat poured down 
his face. 

But all the boys trembled and sweated, there was nothing 
new in that; while in addition to the sweat the breasts of 
their shirts, and the arm along which the spools were car- 
ried, were always wet with soapy water, for the silk could 
not be wound dry and must be soaked first. 

This too was the runner’s job. He had to get to the mill 
early and have his spools ready before the winder came. 


BELLAMY 


33 

The soapy water stood in a tub — stinking horribly, so that 
the atmosphere of the twisting room at dawn would make 
the stoutest retch. He dipped his spools into this and sucked 
the water up, drawing it through the silk with a horn and 
then spitting it out, back into the tub. There were helpers 
who vomited every morning of their lives over this job. 

One of the boys, Billy Halford, was thirteen, but to look 
at him he might have been six. His bent legs and dispro- 
portionately long arms were like sticks. His peaked face 
colourless. But he did not seem to feel the heat, or to lose 
breath. The third runner, Mark Bax, was considerably 
older than the other two; older than runners usually are, 
for he was nineteen ; a sure sign that he had tried many 
things and failed. Mark ran with an extraordinary air of 
desperation. Often he lurched forward and loosened the 
twist: he was always laughing and joking, or coughing and 
spitting. But the men let him go as easy as they could; 
cursing him more for the fun of producing a stream of 
vivid and highly coloured repartee than anything else. For, 
as they all knew, Mark was running a double race: and 
death was drawing him as surely as the silk thread ; waiting 
there with his shears, almost as tangible as old man Brook 
at his wheel. Thus, more from a sort of superstition than 
from real pity, none of the men laid a hand on him. Though 
Billy’s twister kicked him clean over his cross the second day 
Walter was at the mill, merely for breaking an over-dry 
thread. 

During the dinner hour Walter — very vague as to how 
he had got there — sat in the backyard of the little shop, and 
endeavoured, with agonised intensity, to be sick; but with- 
out success. Doubtless Jimmy had got the better part of his 
“ innards.” 

His mother did not want him to go back to the mill, 
though complaining bitterly that it was just her luck he 
should be “ took so.” He was the dead spit of his father 
and was going the same way; she did not need any one to 
tell her that. 

But little Walter Bellamy already had a rooted objection 
to giving in when he seemed to be losing a game. And all 
that his mother could get out of him was an unfilial injunc- 
tion to “ shut up an’ let a fellow be.” 


BELLAMY 


34 

Back at the mill he suddenly began to feel better. His 
legs were still oddly detached, but the drag on his stomach 
had ceased. And he felt like laughing and singing, while 
his head seemed to dance alone upon the thick air, as he had 
once — in the course of a long-remembered trip to Black- 
pool — seen little glass balls dance on a tiny fountain in a 
shooting-gallery. 

Mark christened him “ little Frenchy ” and he responded 
nobly : reeling off whole sentences, like, “ Avez-vous le bon 
canif du petit gargon ? ” in a chanting voice as he ran : with 
such an air that he was universally acknowledged to be “ a 
card.” 

Then — somewhere in the middle of the afternoon — he 
heard his own voice, very high and far away, remark, “ Mon 
Dieu, but it’s — it’s ” He struggled for a French ad- 

jective, but failed: then ended with “bloody ’ot” just as 
the floor leapt up and hit him on the forehead. 

The next thing he knew was that he was on his back in 
one corner of the loft ; and that his hair and face, and bare 
shoulders were wetter than ever ; while a cup of water — 
actually held by the great Jimmy Clarke himself — was 
rattling against his teeth. 

Also, and he grasped this fact with amazement, Jimmy 
was not swearing, but calling upon him to “ taeke a sup.” 
And addressing him as “ moy doe.” 

They all wanted him to go home then. Jimmy Clarke 
said he would not mind knocking off himself if he could 
not find a runner. But Walter was not going to give in. 
He pictured himself creeping home just as the children were 
coming out of school, and knew exactly how they would 
point at him. For never, in his moments of deepest depres- 
sion, did he ever think of himself as passing unnoticed. 

“ Went roight off, Oi did? ” he questioned. 

“ Aye, that’s so ! ” responded Clarke admiringly. 

“ All white an’ cauld, as if I wur a real stiff ’un.” 

“ Just the identical saeme.” 

“ There ain’t mony boys as faints complete off loike that, 
Oi reckon,” he murmured proudly; and the fact sustained 
him through the rest of the afternoon — though he had 
sudden qualms as to the stability of the floor. For by tacit 
consent neither of the men, or the boys — and this needed 


BELLAMY 


35 

some self-control on their parts — told Walter that most, if 
not all, runners started off in the same way. 

By the time he got home things had ceased to worry him. 
He did not even trouble overmuch about being a man, and 
let his mother help him straight to bed; though he could not 
face the thought of tea. 

Later however, Mrs. Irwin, who worked in the mill her- 
self — getting home each evening to what most women 
would regard as a heavy day’s housework, for she had five 
children, and Jane the eldest was only eleven — came round 
to see how he had got through the day, bringing him some 
blanc-mange made from a patent powder, mixed with a lit- 
tle water; not particularly nourishing, but cool and sweet. 
And Walter let Jane sit against his pillow and feed him 
with a spoon while he told of how he had fainted, and how 
the men at the mill had thought he was dead, for his heart 
had quite stopped beating and he was as stiff as a board 
and white as China silk. All with such pathos that — and 
here was a crowning triumph — even the cold-hearted Jane 
was impressed, and a big tear rolled down her face on to 
the back of Walter’s hand. 

“ A fly got in my eye cornin’ up street, an’ set it waterin’, 
so as never was,” she said. But Walter Bellamy knew 
better, a tear so round and clear and complete came straight 
from the heart. He knew womenkind, did Walter Bellamy. 


CHAPTER VI 


W ALTER spent a curious night during which it was 
difficult to realise whether he was waking or 
sleeping. Though now and then, by some tre- 
mendous effort, he made himself realise that there were no 
wheels in his attic ; while he was lying in his own bed, and 
therefore must have been dreaming that he was still in the 
twisting room: not only being drawn to and fro, but being 
actually wound up in a gigantic wheel : turned by a terrible 
old man with a beard and a high bald forehead whom he 
realised as God. 

Jane was on the wheel too, and her little brother with a 
sore hip ; even the baby and Billy and Mark Bax : all twisted 
up in innumerable threads of fine, silk ; being whirled round 
and round with a terrible velocity which it seemed that noth- 
ing could stop. 

Then some one took him and pulled him out and smoothed 
him down; and he wd.s very much distressed, because he 
felt that he was dead, and realised that he was actually going 
to Heaven without being given time to change his clogs, 
which would make a disgraceful clatter upon the golden 
floor. 

But it was evident that the some one else had noticed it 
too ; for after many fruitless attempts to struggle up and go 
and look for his boots, he distinctly heard a voice say : 

“ Get up ! get up at once, you lazy louse ! ” And then 
somebody shook him. 

He tried to explain that he could not get up because he 
was dead; while at the same time he was not a boy at all, 
but only a tress of heavily weighted China silk. 

But it was no good. And still the shaking went on ; until 
at last he was sufficiently wide awake to realise that it was 
his mother who stood by his bedside, that his clothes were 
on the floor, and that she was shaking him petulantly. 

“ Get up — it’s toime to get up, Wally! — Oi never did 
36 


BELLAMY 


37 

see a lod as slept so ! Get up — get up now — or you’ll be 
laete at the mill.” 

Each sentence was punctuated by one ecstatic moment, 
when he slipped back to sleep, and then by a shake. 

But at last Mrs. Bellamy had him sitting up at the edge 
of his bed, with his throbbing feet on the floor. 

“ Now then, you get into yer things — double quick sharp. 
Oi’ve got the kettle on an’ it ’ull be boiling by the toime 
thee’s ready. Oi never see’d sech a lod ! Bless us an’ save 
us if it’s goin’ ter be loike this ’ere every marnin’.” 

Walter could hear her still complaining as she went down- 
stairs, and he stooped for his breeches which had fallen on 
the floor. 

But his head was so swimming and full that, having strug- 
gled into them — even before he could gather energy to 
hitch his braces over his shoulders — he felt compelled to lie 
down on the pillow again. 

And so, five minutes later, after repeated calling, his 
mother came up and found him: curled round and fast 
asleep. Blissfully and dreamlessly asleep as he had not been 
during the whole night. 

This time Mrs. Bellamy kept firm hold of him till she got 
him downstairs and into the backyard, with his head under 
the pump. Then left him with his shirt rolled round his 
waist, vigorously towelling while she cut him a “ butty.” 

Walter ate ravenously. Never before in the whole course 
of his life had he felt so hungry. His head was still heavy ; 
he ached in every limb, his feet were swollen so that there 
could be no question of getting them into his clogs. But 
the sickness had gone, and from that time to the end of his 
running days he ate all that he could lay his hands on. 

It was this that saved him : left him some brains to formu- 
late ideas with, to see ahead. For in this desperate hunger 
lies the one possible salvation for the runner. It shows that 
there is still some vitality left : that nature is strong enough 
to endeavour to recoup herself. 

Little Billy lived on tea and pastry: there was nothing 
else he could fancy, unless it were a scrap of tinned fish 
over-layered with Worcester sauce and buried in pickles; 
while Mark seemed to sustain his hectic existence on little 
beyond sups of gin. 


BELLAMY 


38 

Walter’s second day at running would have proved more 
endurable had it not been for his feet and the throbbing pain 
in his head. 

The third was easier still from a physical point of view ; 
for he was getting his second wind. But the fourth was 
mentally worse than anything he had ever known before. 
The dreary monotony of it was like a brooding thunder- 
storm; deadening thought, weighing him down, stupifying 
him. He was just at that stage when he might have gone 
on being a runner for three or four years, like Billy Hal- 
ford. To find himself turned out in the world at last with- 
out any trade, with youth and hope and ambition all gone, 
were it not for an accident which happened, just toward 
evening on that fourth day. 

Mark had been running more spasmodically than ever. 
Had he been helping either of the other men, instead of 
mild old Brook, he would not have been tolerated for a mo- 
ment, despite their awe and pity. For he had to be paid 
and the twister and his family had to live. 

It was not that he was unwilling. He was almost too 
willing. He started at the wrong moments: he overran 
himself. He was on the go the whole time; jigging from 
foot to foot if he was kept waiting for a moment, and some- 
times old Brook was a long time setting his strands. 

The only entrance to the twisters’ loft was through an 
empty doorway with an embrasure, so deep that if any new- 
comer was not careful to peep round on either side before 
emerging, a collision was probable. 

Mark was running blindly, with his head thrust forward, 
putting all the strength of his lank body into the effort. For 
it had been a long hot day, and he was at the end of his en- 
durance. 

Then, just as he was on the full swing of his return jour- 
ney, running close against the wall, one of the warehouse- 
men came in with a basket of spools. 

“ Look out ! ” shouted somebody. But it was too late and 
Mark was into him. 

The man with the basket stood like a rock beneath the 
impact ; though he put down his load and rubbed his shoul- 
der where the runner’s head had struck him. But Mark was 
down. 


BELLAMY 


39 

There was a shout of laughter — and old Brook rapped 
out a mild oath as the silk snapped — then a sudden silence, 
as, without stirring, they stood and stared at Mark; who 
had dragged himself into a sitting position and was cough- 
ing, with his arm up against his mouth, gazing in stupefied 
amazement at a deluge of blood which surged out over it, 
and down his bare chest, to settle in a dust-fringed pool 
upon the floor. 

That was the end of running for Mark Bax. Walter only 
saw him once more : lying in bed in the cottage hospital very 
white and clean and eager-eyed as ever. 

Incidentally it was the end of Walter’s running, also. For 
in some curious fashion the sight of Mark’s life-blood woke 
him from the torpor into which he was drifting ; and he came 
to the conclusion that it was not the sort of game to go on 
with ; as Billy was doing. Or to end as Mark has ended it ; 
with what would have been a pauper’s funeral, had not old 
Brook got up a subscription from among the other workers 
in the mill. 

For he had never been saving, poor Mark! And had 
either forgotten or ignored the claims of the burial club, 
with its weekly reminders that : — “ In the midst of life we 
are in death.” 

Walter had showed them all that he could run; and had 
run, with the best. So well that when he handed in his 
notice to Jimmy Clarke on Friday night, he was offered an 
extra sixpence a week to remain. 

But he would not do that. He worked out his Saturday 
morning, then went home and for the first time told his 
mother what he had done. 

She was full of complaints. “Just when thee wer’t get- 
tin’ used ter it. Ter go an’ chuck up a job loike that, thee’ll 
never get aught pays sar well,” she declared. Though all 
through the week she had lamented that Walter ate far more 
than he earned. 

“ Gawd only knows what Fve done ter be burdened wid 
such folk — you an’ yer feyther a’fore you. What’s took 
yer ter go an’ act so ! That’s what I want ter know.” The 
question came like a sudden yap at the end of a dogs long- 
drawn howl. 

“ Oi didn’t mean ter ’ave moy legs runned all warpy,” an- 


40 


BELLAMY 


swered Walter placidly. And went on polishing his Sunday 
boots, which later on — having finished his dinner — he 
donned. 

“ Where art thee goin’ now ? ” 

“ Ter lake, along with some other chaps.” 

“That yer ain’t! Yer’ve just got ter stay an’ wash up 
these ’ere crocks.” 

“ Thet’s wimen’s work, not men’s.” 

Walter spoke with such decision that his mother gave in, 
as he knew she would do. Though the next moment she 
was off again on another grievance. 

“ Thee’s not goin’ up lake in them boots.” 

But of this Walter took no notice, whatever. He was 
tying his tie in front of the glass which hung behind the 
kitchen door ; for the day of the sailor blouse was over and 
he wore a jacket and proper collar and tie, like any other boy. 

He missed his father. But there was this about it, he had 
a new suit for the burying. And he was ** the only son of 
his mother and she was a widow.” Somehow he liked the 
sound of that. 

Thus taking all in all poor James Bellamy was not much 
missed. But then who is? 


CHAPTER VII 


W ALTER was not long out of work. On Monday 
he made a persistent tour of the mills, and by 
Tuesday he was in again; this time spooling for 
the weavers at Cluttons ; work which always used to be done 
by women, and is now, save where the beckoning opu- 
lence of artificial silk has drawn them away. 

Then the mortgagees and creditors swept down upon the 
little corner shop : the stock and fitments were sold, and the 
widow, having fortunately saved her furniture, moved down 
Compton Street — near to the mill where Walter then 
worked — and commenced the arduous combination of tak- 
ing in lodgers and going out charing. 

There was a big attic at the top of the house — almost the 
whole of one side of it taken up by a small-paned window — 
which had once been used for winding when home work 
was more common. 

This was now divided up into two, and Walter shared it 
with a young fellow out of one of the warehouses: while 
Mrs. Bellamy camped amid black-beetles and dubious cook- 
ing utensils in the back kitchen; and the front kitchen and 
middle part of the house were occupied by lodgers, mostly 
single men. 

It was the youth in the attic — undersized and unreliable, 
with a taste for dirty literature — who happened to be one 
of the small straws turning the current of Walter Bellamy’s 
life. For he bragged so of the superiority of warehouse 
employees — who considered themselves clerks, and stayed 
at work late instead of going to it early — over other fac- 
tory hands that Walter gave nobody any peace till he also 
got into a warehouse ; and started wearing stand-up collars 
and smoking cigarettes. 

But he was not a fool. The other youth’s horizon — and 
he was four years the elder — was bounded by the chance of 

4i 


42 


BELLAMY 


\ 


an ultimate tw*enty-five shillings a week: more cigarettes, 
more ties ; the Isle of Man for his summer holidays, instead 
of Blackpool. And later on marriage — though he would 
not have confessed to this — with some smart-looking girl 
of his own class. 

Walter Bellamy saw much further than this. If his am- 
bition possessed any boundary it was simply because he did 
not know how great, how wonderful, and above all how 
expensive things could be. 

He meant to get on. To climb up and up. He felt in 
himself the possibilities of becoming a very fine, very impor- 
tant gentleman. But as yet his models were the mill-own- 
ers, and their sons : the former domineering, loud voiced 
and self-assertive, the latter, for the most part, as weedy 
and dissipated as are the sons of so many self-made men. 

For the convert to gentility suffers, in the way that all 
converts do. 

Being a gentleman consisted in making more money than 
other people: treading them underfoot till they had no 
breath left to dispute. That: — “I say so, and what I say 
must be right ” sort of attitude, of which he had seen so 
much. To wear very bright brown boots, drive a motor 
and keep other folk under: without all this how was any 
one to know you were a gentleman? 

In addition it was well to possess enough brains to im- 
press other people with your cleverness. To make them see 
not only as you saw but as you wished them to see. 

It was all part of the game of life and gave it ^n infinite 
zest. To practise the thimble trick, not with silly inanimate 
things, but with peopled minds. To run with the hare and 
hunt with the hounds : to balance oneself — if needs be — 
on a rail, with no indication of wobbling either to one side 
or another. To perfect oneself in all the mental gymnastics 
of getting on. 

Every one who had wit enough was doing it. The only 
thing was to try and do it better than anybody else. And 
at the same time never forget that a great part of the art 
consists : not merely in knowing things, but in knowing them 
just one day ahead of other people. 

Thus, by the time he was sixteen, young Bellamy’s reli- 
gion was formulated. It was the religion of “ Getting On,” 


BELLAMY 


43 

and not only of getting on, but of getting the very most that 
was possible out of life. 

His self-confidence was amazing. His mind seized on an 
idea, digested it and turned it out — as some American ma- 
chines turn out sausages — all in a moment. The sheer 
force of his individuality shot these ideas into other people’s 
consciousness ; while he fixed them there by his hard stare, 
his admirably timed and sudden silences. 

For if Walter Bellamy so much as hinted a thing you 
were obliged to think of it: even though it were only with 
disapproval. If he stared you felt that he plumbed the 
depths of your craven ignorance; while if he kept silent 
you wondered uneasily what was going to happen next. 

By the time he was twenty he had moved himself and his 
mother to a clerkly house in South Bank Street, where they 
occupied the entire first floor. At least Walter did, for 
Mrs. Bellamy was one of those people who are inevitably 
to be found in the back kitchen — somewhere between the 
copper and the sink — the highest wave of prosperity being 
powerless to raise them, to do more than just sweep them 
there with all their grime and litter and querulous incapa- 
city; and then retreat, leaving them still stranded, like the 
ridge of refuse one finds along the seashore. 

She would as soon have thought of sitting, or having her 
meals, in the front parlour as she would of having them in 
the chapel. So Walter fixed it up very comfortable for 
himself, with his books and papers — he was a voracious 
reader of anything which he thought might be of use to 
him, always new books; for literature as such he had no 
taste, he simply wanted to know what was going on in the 
world — while the upper part was let, and Mrs. Bellamy 
slept in a small apartment originally intended as a larder, 
and continued to rail at Walter — to his face — for all he 
ever did or was, and for all his father had ever been and 
done before him. At the same time singing his praises 
without ceasing behind his back: assuring every neighbour 
who had time to listen to her, every employer for whom she 
chared, that no woman ever had such a son. 

This was really the way in which Mr. James Higgins’ 
daughter — James Higgins being old Peter Morrison’s jun- 
ior partner — first heard of Walter : in a round-about way 


44 


BELLAMY 


from a friend of the daughter of the chemist in Upton 
Street whose shop Mrs. Bellamy washed out twice every 
week before her son insisted on her retiring into private life. 

Meanwhile Walter attended book-keeping and shorthand 
classes at the Working-men’s Institute: joined the gymna- 
sium — determining on keeping fit, and attaining to a figure 
as near perfect as those of the superbly tailored noblemen 
shown in the advertisements of the Drapers' Monthly. In 
addition to this, he spent two nights a week in taking les- 
sons from a little, half French, half Irish designer named 
O’Kelly, who taught French — Parisian with a brogue — 
for sixpence an hour. 

The Drapers' Record , The Silk World, and Textile 
Monthly — which lay upon the tables of the Institute — 
taught Walter, not only how to dress with a discrimination 
beyond his class, but to keep abreast of the trade in which 
he was involved. The constant keen push of his mind — 
for there was not a day in which he did not search the 
money-market columns for every detail of the silk industry 
— sharpened and refined his face ; while his vanity and his 
determination to keep fit saved him from the pit-falls which 
alike await the complete student and complete money- 
grubber. 

There was no doubt that he was good to look upon : five 
foot eleven : broad shouldered and narrow hipped ; his head 
carried high, his chin held with an upward and sidewards 
tilt. It was this trick of carrying his head which saved 
Walter Bellamy’s face from a touch of coarseness; for the 
jaw was heavy and by nature somewhat blurred, the lower 
lip too full. 

For the rest, the face was almost pure Greek. The head 
well shaped and covered with wavy black hair — which, for 
some years, he wore after the fashion of the other Edge 
youths, closely cut at the back and with a lock that waved 
above his brow. This, till one day in chapel he happened 
to notice the back of the men’s heads in front of him, came 
to the conclusion that the bony close-shaved expanse behind 
the ear was particularly ugly; and insisted on the barber 
leaving his hair a reasonable length at the back. Though 
the love-lock still remained. 

His eyes were not large, but very bright and fringed with 


BELLAMY 


4 S 

thick straight lashes which softened their lack of depth; his 
nose straight and rather thin, his teeth pointed and irregu- 
lar, but very white. The whole appearance of the youth 
amazingly vital. 

No wonder Rose Higgins watched from her window to 
see him go by ; smiling and blushing, and only pretending 
to draw in her head if he happened to look up. She had 
seriously thought of marrying a title. But that would mean 
tiptoeing, and there would be something delightfully ro- 
mantic in bending to a man of the people : her own people. 

Rose was not the only girl who cast eyes at Walter Bel- 
lamy, but just twenty and already occupying a responsible 
position in the warehouse. However he had no time for 
girls. They were too fulsome in their admiration, his van- 
ity had already outgrown them, and he preferred the ap- 
plause of men ; mature men, who looked on him as a smart 
fellow with a real talent for business. Some one who — 
for all his youth — was never at a loss, who kept himself 
aloof from the petty frivolities of the town, and studied the 
commerce, not only of Dutton and Wantage, but of the 
world: had been to Coventry and knew something worth 
knowing about artificial silk. Though he would never say 
quite how much; shaking his head mysteriously when any 
one questioned him: — 

“ When a fellow’s in a thing, really in it,” he would say : 
— “ he finds he’s got to keep his mouth shut. Oi can tell 
you that.” 

Walter had struggled persistently with the aspirate and 
learnt to keep it in its proper place — though he loved to 
talk French with O’Kelly, and just let it go as it would — 
but the broad vowel still beat him. 

It was amazing how little the workpeople knew outside 
of their own special jobs. There were real-silk workers at 
Morrison’s who had never seen a scarf or tie made ; though 
they were turned out week after week by the thousands: 
who had never watched the artificial silk being wound, 
fingered it ; even seen it. Men and women who had worked 
at the same thing — doubling or spooling — for forty years 
and knew nothing of any other branch of the trade. 


CHAPTER VIII 


J UST before Walter Bellamy's twenty-first birthday 
there was a strike in Edge. A unique strike, for in it 
very nearly all the men workers came out in sympathy 
with the women ; who in their turn were standing by a per- 
centage of their fellows — the artificial-silk workers who 
had been threatened with a reduction. 

These artificial-silk workers were the best paid of all the 
hands: earning far more than many of the men, who re- 
garded them with jealousy, as did the “ hard ” — or real — 
silk workers, toiling for a miserable eleven shillings a week ; 
a class who — as Higgins himself had said — were “ used 
to starvation.” 

But in the face of trouble they stood firmly together. 
Wages must be levelled up to the highest, not down to the 
lowest; and all petty discontents and jealousies were for- 
gotten. 

The masters had been rash enough to publicly declare 
that the people would not come out : had believed it too, and 
were amazed and half frightened at what they had done. 
Even then more would have given in. But old Peter Mor- 
rison had bound them to a forfeit of a hundred pounds if 
they failed him and the other big owners, members of the 
Edge Chamber of Commerce. 

There were some small, new firms who could ill afford 
to forfeit such a sum. On the other hand they could ill 
afford a strike; but King Mbrrison had got them between 
the cleft of a forked stick and meant keeping them there, as 
long as possible. He had a new boiler to put up. It was 
still a fortnight till the August holiday, which only lasted a 
week, and a week would not have given him time to get the 
job done. They might as well stay out as they had gone 
out. He was in no hurry. 

However, in the end he was baulked, for the boiler- 
makers refused to do the work till the strike was over, and 

46 


BELLAMY 


47 

thus the whole time was a blank loss: though that did not 
make him any more amicably inclined. 

There were constant consultations between the masters 
and representatives of the men. In addition to this huge 
mass meetings were held almost nightly at the Town Hall ; 
for the people would know all that was going on, a fatal 
policy which prevented the possibility of the strike leaders 
springing any fresh move upon the masters. 

Walter attended every meeting, at first merely as a looker- 
on at the game. 

Fiery speeches surged through his brain. He was aflame 
with anger. Not toward the masters or the men, but to- 
wards fate, which had somehow ordained that the very 
position to which he had attained, the class into which he 
had wriggled his way, was a class without a Union. He 
was hung between the cold heaven of the masters and the 
earth — the dear familiar teeming earth — of the multitude, 
amid which he might have been recognised. 

He had no right to speak. He had no right to lift his 
hands in the general show. As a matter of fact he had no 
right even at the meetings. 

He had never envied any one as he envied the Trade 
Union Secretary, Burton. And during his whole life he 
never envied a better man. 

Fresh detachments of police were drafted into the town. 
There was a good deal of rowdy horse-play; singing of 
songs — jeering, but no violence. 

“ A word from Burton's worth more nor all their bloody 
p’leece ! ” declared the men hanging about the street cor- 
ners; with their hands in their pockets, miserably inactive. 
For they were not idlers, but steady workers who had been 
at it since they were eight or ten, and the long blank days 
bit into their souls. 

Maybe the women felt the pinch the worst: but they in- 
dulged in orgies of housework such as they had never before 
had time for, besides there were the children for them to 
see to, and their time was full. 

Not much to fear from the women, but with the men it 
was different. Those blank days, lengthened by the habit 
of early waking — might well drive them to kill or cave in. 
And Burton knew it. But somehow he kept them together. 


BELLAMY 


48 

By his personality, by the palpable suffering which he en- 
dured more than anything else. 

** That fellow Burton seems pretty popular,” Walter re- 
marked one day, to a group of haggard-faced women stand- 
ing outside one of the courts, who had just shouted a 
greeting across the road to their secretary. 

“Popular!” ejaculated one scornfully; turning round 
upon him, her hands on her lips — “ ’Ee’s worshipped, that’s 
what ’ee is.” 

At the end of the two weeks very little progress had been 
made. The Union put forward suggestions which were 
mutilated till there was nothing of them left; while in re- 
turn the masters pushed forward tentative offers to with- 
draw them next day. 

Then a trick was tried on the workers, which had the 
effect of a staggering blow over the head. 

Burton and his executive had suggested arbitration from 
the Board of Trade, to be based on profits. If the industry 
was really found incapable of paying the wages, less would 
be accepted. 

The offer had been laughed to scorn. But a few days 
later the Secretary received a letter from the mill-owners’ 
representative, offering arbitration on the basis, not of 
profits, but of the wages paid in other places. 

That very afternoon notices were on all the mill gates, 
distributed broadcast over the town, informing the workers 
that an agreement had been come to; that the masters had 
determined to submit the matter to arbitration, pending 
which all hands would return to work. 

They timed it well. It was late in the evening when the 
notices were sent out, still later when the news reached the 
Union offices. 

But Burton was equal to the occasion. Within half an 
hour sandwich-men were parading the town with placards 
of a general mass meeting; and by eight the Town Hall was 
packed, while an overflow meeting surged into the co-opera- 
tive hall. 

Somehow Walter wriggled his way into the big building. 

The other meetings had been more or less light-hearted, 
the people’s stolidity gave them confidence. They had set- 
tled down with that courage which people, who have never 


BELLAMY 


49 

known what it is to possess capital at their back, show when 
things are at their worst. 

But the new move had set all their nerves on edge. They 
did not know what was expected of them — who had failed ; 
and the uncertainty told on them. 

For once there was no shouting nor singing, but only an 
ominous whisper which ran through the hall like the on- 
coming of a storm through trees, the distant surge of waves. 

Apart from this whispering thei;e was an intangible 
brooding air, as if of thunder, a spiritual emanation from 
these hundreds of overstrained, under-fed, angry, and 
suspicious people. 

Walter had climbed on to a window-ledge near the plat- 
form, and could look across the room. Here and there a 
girl flaunted a bright-coloured hat. But for the most part 
the assembly was drab. 

It was a hot night : the close air hung like a palpable mist 
above the people, each electric light with its own reddish 
halo. The faces in Edge were always white with want of 
air. But now they were white with a difference. The 
workers had begun to feel the pinch, and this last trick had 
put them in an ugly mood. It might be that Burton had 
really made some agreement with the owners without con- 
sulting them. If he had they would teach him once for all 
that he was their servant. They loved him when he fell in 
with their demands — would take almost anything from 
him — but they were oblivious of all that now. 

He was the only servant they had ever had, and they 
were not likely to allow him to forget the fact. 

If it was Burton who had “ let them in ” they would 
“ limb him.” But then it might not be Burton, it might be 
the masters. There was no knowing. 

Other evenings they had talked among each other ; shout- 
ing questions and answers across the hall. But now each 
suspected his neighbour. Even the fringers — the most 
irresponsible of all the girls — were quiet, except for that 
sibilant whisper. They did not even giggle. It seemed as 
if they had grown suddenly old, their hard lips set upon 
some secret. 

So tense were the assembled people that it was difficult to 
realise them as individuals. Divided as they were on many 


BELLAMY 


5o 

points, suspicious of each other, they were yet like one in- 
articulate being, struggling desperately against its own want 
of knowledge. 

The executive who sat upon the platform — men and 
women elected from every branch of the trade, in every 
mill — were late. 

When they did arrive, ten minutes after time, there was 
none of the waving to, the shouted greetings from their 
friends in the body of the hall, which had usually greeted 
them. Nor did they speak among each other ; but sat with 
folded arms, tightly closed lips and an appearance of utter 
weariness. 

They were of all sorts. Old men from among the weav- 
ers — pickers and twisters ; younger men — tattlers, machine 
fettlers, tenters. Elderly women — hard-silk workers and 
warpers, doublers and spoolers ; and younger girls and mar- 
ried women — artificial knitters and winders and f ringers. 

There was one immense old woman all in black with her 
black hair drawn tightly from her nobbly forehead, and her 
arms folded high, over her massive bust ; next her an exotic- 
looking girl with a rose-coloured hat and dazzling earrings ; 
there could not have been two more different people, but 
their expressions were the same. Walter scanned every 
face, young and old. They were all the same, utterly 
wearied, but ennobled by determination and suffering. At 
the joint meetings the masters had juggled with them. 
Their superior knowledge of words, their education had 
given them some advantage ; but they had got very little out 
of these women. They were native to the life; they had 
lived it since they were eight or nine. They could not say 
much; but they knew what they wanted, and that was the 
greater part of the battle. 

For the hill women of North Staffordshire are delicate in 
physique only. In spirit they are the worthy descendants 
of the early Britons who found one of their last strongholds 
among those wild moors above Edge. 

They have the quiet, far-seeing eyes of the women in 
our Colonies; women who, for all their gentleness, would 
not stick at killing were their homes or their children's lives 
at stake. 

They had, most of them, borne children, had gone down 


BELLAMY 


51 

to the gates of death. They had always stood on the edge 
of a precipice : they were used to the look of it. The mas- 
ters might make fiery rings round them with fine words that 
they could not understand. But they would not turn them. 

Burton was even later than his executive. For no special 
reason — except to split up the ranks of the men, separating 
them from their women — the twisters had received a sud- 
den offer of an extra two shillings a week, and had to be 
dealt with at the last moment. 

For the first time no cheering greeted him when he did 
appear ; and the chairman made his opening address amid a 
dead silence. He explained to the people that a trick had 
been played upon them. A trick such as he had never come 
across during his whole connection with the labour move- 
ment; which he could scarcely have believed that any body 
of well-educated men — men who pretended to be, and 
whom their workers regarded as honourable gentlemen — 
would have stooped to. He would leave it to his secretary 
to explain to them exactly what had occurred. 

Burton was paler than ever when he rose : it seemed as if 
he had suddenly become an old man. In a level expression- 
less voice he read the letter from the Edge Chamber of Com- 
merce offering the wages of other places as a basis for 
arbitration. 

Then he read the reply — which was actually being 
drafted by him and his committee while the masters’ notices 
were being sent round — absolutely refusing the terms. 

Still there was a dead silence. The people were trying to 
understand. Their faces were oddly twisted in the greenish 
light, they were deadened by the effort of thought ; so many 
people had failed them that they found it difficult to quite 
trust anybody. 

Still in the same flat level voice Burton enumerated all 
the moves of the game, giving them a painstaking careful 
resume of what had passed. Taking no sides, abusing no 
one. Any casual listener might have believed him almost 
as much on the side of the mill-owners as the workers. 

A moment or two later they would have sworn that he 
was all on the owners’ side, for he began to abuse the people. 

Out of hundreds who had teen served with those lying 
notices only some half-dozen had been sensible enough to 


BELLAMY 


52 

come straight to the Union and ask the meaning of it. 
They hung about like swarming bees, talking and talking; 
they had not the wit to realise how they were being tricked. 
They could not steer their own boat and they could not 
trust others to steer it for them. 

“ If I’d been able to count on your support, been sure of 
your having the sense to know what was good for you, I 
wouldn’t have needed to wait to call your committee to- 
gether,” he said ; “ I’d have been able to send a point-blank 
refusal to the suggestion made; and all this trouble and 
expense would have been saved. You’re not men and 
women, you’re sheep ; that’s what you are — sheep.” 

This awoke the people from their apathy. They were 
not offended, they would take anything from Burton save 
his suspected desertion. A few moments ago he had 
seemed their enemy, unreal, uncomprehended: but here he 
was : the same as ever. They had been called sheep before, 
and anything familiar was a relief. 

“ Even now,” he went on, “ we are helpless till we have 
put the matter before you. And meanwhile every mill- 
owner in the place will not only know what decision we 
have come to, but know that you have no real trust in the 
people you have appointed to represent you. I don’t speak 
of myself, I speak of your executive — fellow-workers of 
your own ! 

“I am now going to read the letter which has been 
drafted in answer to the masters’ suggestion, and you can 
give your vote on it. But remember this, every master in 
the place will know what it contains before he gets it. 
However that’s your choice, not mine. All I ask is that you 
give your vote as thinking men and women. I don’t want 
to rush you. You have had, or will have, plenty of time to 
consider what you are about. But for God’s sake do con- 
sider.” 

The motion refusing the suggestion of arbitration upon 
the basis suggested, or a return to work under such condi- 
tions, was passed without a single opposing hand ; with en- 
thusiasm and feeling, for the people were beginning to know 
where they were and the cloud was lifting. 

A counter suggestion had been drafted by the executive: 


BELLAMY 


53 

but it was impossible to please all parties ; and there was no 
getting it through. 

The demands of the knotters and fringers were easy 
enough to settle : but the winding — where the conditions 
and the silk used differed in every mill — was more difficult. 
Again and again a definite programme was arrived at; then 
some shrill woman’s voice broke in with an objection, aris- 
ing from the peculiarities of her own particular job, and the 
whole thing was thrown out of gear. 

Burton was extraordinarily patient. He did not mind 
what delays and difficulties there were, as long as the people 
showed some signs of tackling the affair in earnest, and 
used their brains as he had entreated them to do. 

Apart from the winders, another burning question was 
that of the warehouse workers. Time after time the ques- 
tion of these people cropped up. If they were only engaged 
in packing and clerical work, as they declared, why had the 
engines been going in many of the mills ; and why did they 
slip back to work at night? 

The warehouse staff had always been disliked. They 
were as badly paid as any other branch, but they were too 
proud to join the Union. Now, during the time of stress, 
it was suspected — and in some cases rightly — that they 
were doing other people’s work: keeping the mills going, 
and thus lengthening the strike with all its attendant mis- 
eries. Bribed by high wages to take over the knitting and 
winding which they had scorned. 

“ Up along Clutton’s the worst,” shrieked one woman : — 
“ They go in at all hours an’ out at all hours. They keep 
’em there an’ feed ’em.” 

“ It’s they as keep us out : doin’ our work. Bloody black- 
legs!” 

“ It’s a damned lie ! ” shouted Bellamy. 

“ Who is it ? Who’s yon ? ” The question buzzed round 
the hall as, years before, it had buzzed round the chapel. 
Then came the answer : — 

“ Bloke on window. Walter Bellamy — that there Bel- 
lamy ! ” 

“ That ’ayporth o’ treacle ! ” sneered a girl’s voice, and 
there was a scream of laughter. 


54 


BELLAMY 


“ Only a warehouser.” 

“A penny a weeker!” The crowd — half hysterical 
after the long strain — laughed again at this sally: harsh, 
broken laughter, the women’s shrill treble on the edge of 
tears. 

“ A penny a weeker.” This last taunt — meaning that 
he was one of those who would invest a weekly penny in 
the burial club, and was yet too mean to pay his threepence 
or fourpence a week into the Union — was more than Wal- 
ter could stand. 

“ Is there any branch of the Union for the warehouse 
men and women? Tell me that! ” he cried. 

There were shouts of : — “ No, no ! ” and reasons why 
were given, so loudly and profusely that again and again 
the chairman rang his bell before there was a hush, in 
which to make his voice audible. 

“ Any question must be addressed to the platform,” he 
said. 

“ I addressed it to you and your Secretary,” answered 
Walter coolly. “ And I ask it again. Is there any existing 
branch of Union for the warehouse men and women? ” 

“ No, there is not.” It was Burton who spoke. “ Sev- 
eral years ago there was a branch embracing the warehouse 
workers. But for some reason or other — perhaps because 
they were too intimately connected with the masters, or did 
not care to spend the money — they dropped out and the 
whole thing collapsed. But they have shared in the general 
rise of wages brought about by the Union, and it seems a 
pity that they hadn’t spunk enough to hold to it: to help 
the rest of the people by coming out with them. Even now 
if they joined the Union solidly, showed what they were 
made of ” 

“ Pap ! ” cried a girl’s voice. Walter could see the 
speaker, a red-haired wench, with a round flushed face like 
a pink carnation. He would have liked to have slapped 
her, or kissed her : there was no half-way with such women. 

The bell rang sharply, breaking into the jeer that fol- 
lowed the interjection. And Burton started again. 

“ The railwaymen are refusing to handle the stuff that is 
being turned out of the mill. The gasworkers are paying 
a shilling a week towards the strikers’ fund. But the ware- 


BELLAMY 


55 

house hands — who have lived and worked side by side 
with their fellows in the mills, whose fathers and mothers 
were weavers and winders — have done nothing, except — 
Heaven forgive them — take the bread out of their fellows’ 

mouths. If they’d join us ” 

And by God they shall join! ” cried Walter. 

There was a shout of ugly laughter. With absolute 
calmness he waited till it subsided : standing balancing him- 
self on the narrow window-ledge with one hand above him, 
gripping the cornice. 

“ They shall join,” he repeated again, the moment he 
could make himself heard. 

Burton was leaning a little forward, a dark squarely built 
man, with wonderfully penetrating eyes — the other men in 
the office declared that Burton’s hand was in his pocket at 
any pitiful tale, and that he would have starved long ago 
if it had not been that people were afraid of his eyes, be- 
lieved that he saw through them. 

Walter Bellamy’s glance met his fully: the young man’s 
rather prominent eyes, very bright, eagerly self-confident. 
“ I’ll bring ’em out,” he said ; “ they’re men and women as 
much as any of you. They’ll join — they shall join. I’ll 
.make ’em. Take my word for it, I’ll make ’em! ” 

There was another roar of incredulous laughter. To talk 
of bringing out the warehouse hands : uniting them in any- 
thing but their invincible gentility ! But still the young pup 
meant well — seemed to mean well. 

“ Bully for you ! ” cried some one ; and there was a doubt- 
ful half-cheer. 

But at that moment Walter’s thoughts were not for the 
mass of the people, but for their Secretary, whom he envied, 
and yet partly despised. 

He knew he would make a stronger leader than Burton, 
for he had no ideals to shatter; no disillusions to battle 
against. Burton believed in the cause and the people, and 
wore himself out over them. Walter on the other hand, 
knew that he never would, or could do more than pretend 
to believe; though his pretence would be so perfectly ar- 
ranged that no one would be able to discover a crack in his 
armour. It was when people really felt a thing that they 
gave themselves away. 


BELLAMY 


56 

Burton was not in the habit of doubting his fellows - — 
declared he would rather be taken in a hundred times — 
but the two men were so different that he could not feel 
sure of this new aspirant to his fold. There was something 
hard about Walter’s confident, bright glance. 

“ I can bring ’em out,” he repeated. 

“ Do it then,” retorted Burton curtly. Turned and whis- 
pered a word or two to his chairman. Then put forward 
the last suggestion which had been made that afternoon. 

Just as the people were moving, thinking it was all over 
— for the Secretary sat silent, bent forward, his elbows on 
the table, his head between his hands — Burton touched the 
chairman’s bell and rose to his feet. 

“ One more word — and in a way this is a personal mat- 
ter though it concerns all of us,” he hesitated a moment or 
two, his eyes wandering round the hall, with an odd wist- 
fulness, as if he was trying to gauge the mood of the people 
who declared that they adored him. 

“ At the meeting this afternoon, when no decision could 
be arrived at, I suggested to the committee that a particular 
proposal — already made by them — should be taken as a 
basis of settlement; and that I should be trusted to draft a 
scheme of detail and lay it before them. To this a woman 
replied — perhaps rightly — that I couldn’t do it, as I’d 
been a weaver, not a winder. It was a small thing, but it 
shows the small spirit in which some of you are meeting 
this affair. You won’t trust me any more than you trust 
each other. Oh, I know you’ve all come out together. But 
that’s the fellowship of the flock, that’s not the individual 
judgment of many people all turning one way. You believe 
that it is impossible for me to judge of work that I’ve never 
done. Yet the representatives you have chosen from 
among the winders are trusted just as little because you say : 
‘ There’s that there Mrs. Smith or Mrs. Jones, what right 
has she setting herself up?’ You are not so much afraid 
of not getting what you want, as of other people getting 
more than you do. 

“ Yet if anything goes wrong all the blame will be laid on 
our shoulders — or rather on mine. I don’t mind that — 
they’re broad enough to bear it. But there’s such a thing 
as hitting below the belt. 


BELLAMY 


57 

“ Mr. Morrison said to me to-day : ‘ Well, Burton, if 
you will go on with it, you will; but remember that you’ll 
have the blame of all the starving women and children on 
your shoulders.’ ” 

Again his eyes sought the sea of uplifted faces: he was 
whiter than ever now: and showed deep lines of pain at 
either side of his mouth. 

They would cheer him, laugh at his jokes. They were 
his people ; he could do almost anything he liked with them : 
as long as he allowed them to believe him their servant. 

Yet if anything went wrong. In a moment it would be 
the old cry again : — “ Crucify him, crucify ! ” 

They had bound the burden of all their needs, their weak- 
ness upon his shoulders; had no thought of the agony he 
endured. 

He knew what it all meant, he had been in strikes before. 
It would be like this for years afterwards : — “ My little 
Willy, he wur always rickety, no good; you see ’ee were 
born at strike time when I wur near clammed.” “ My 
man? Aye, I lost him after t’strike, he never seemed to 
pluck up spirit again.” And: — “Our Nell, she started in 
decline strike time, five years back, when all our blankets 
was gone.” 

It was far-reaching indeed. Yet it had its limits of ef- 
fect. To go on always at starvation wages, that was worse. 
War was worse, because it left the worst stock to breed 
from; and yet people took the risks of war for the mere 
greed of territory. 

No strike in the world, let it last as long as it would, 
could do the harm which war did; while even worse than 
war was the resignation to underfeeding and overwork, to 
the Moloch-like rule of capital, that fatal patience of an 
older generation. 

His own mother had borne eight children, worked in the 
mills all her life to supplement her husband’s fourteen shil- 
lings a week and died in a lunatic asylum. 

The sudden memory of her face — so harassed and lov- 
ing, then so strange and wild — flashed like a photograph 
through Burton’s mind. 

The women and children had better starve at once — lie 
in peace on the quiet hillside and have done with it — rather 


BELLAMY 


58 

than live, and breed other inmates for that gaunt habitation 
of despair — to which a paternal government was, year 
after year, adding fresh accommodation — or spit and 
cough their lungs away in consumption. 

“ You men and women, boys and girls,” he went on, the 
weariness gone from his voice, his head high. “ Despite all 
that Morrison says, despite the fact that he has tried to shift 
the responsibility from his own shoulders — for he leads 
the other masters, if it were not for him they’d give way 
long ere this — I maintain that I’m fighting for the right, 
while he is fighting for the wrong.” 

“ Aye, aye, good old Bill ! Good old Bill Burton.” 
There was a storm of applause — he knew how much it was 
worth ; but it cheered him, as a child’s careless, passing love 
will please. 

“ I, at least, am striving ter rouse yer up, you an’ yer chil- 
dren, while he’d pull yer down ter degradation, an’ keep yer 
there for his own ends. In the olden days the corner-stones 
of public buildings was laid in the blood o’ some human 
victim. That great chapel yonder that he’s so proud on. 
What is it laid in? The life-blood, not o’ one, but o’ thou- 
sands : children warped and stunted : stillborn, children 
jockeyed out o’ life — and such a life ! ” he added bitterly. 
“ The like o’ that may fool the deacons an’ the elders, but 
it ’ull not fool God. 

“ It’s the owners and the owners alone, who are responsi- 
ble for the conditions that led to this strike. And if I’m 
responsible for the strike itself I take the responsibility 
gladly — not lightly, mind you. For it’s a weight that no 
man living could bear an’ not feel, if he had any heart in his 
breast. It’s a greater weight than any general bears in any 
battle. He’s responsible for leading his soldiers, he’s not 
responsible for starting the fight — though even then God 
help him if he hasn’t his men’s full confidence. No one will 
ever point at all the misery and desolation and say — 
‘ That’s his doin’ an’ only his.’ He’s not got to live his life 
out in the place, an’ among the people where the fight took 
place ! 

“ But there’s one thing I have, which few enough gen- 
erals do have, and that’s the consciousness of a righteous 


BELLAMY 59 

fight ; while all I ask out of it is that you should trust me ; 
an’ trust each other. 

“ Let old Peter Morrison say what he likes. If you 
starve now — an’ yer won’t, for we’re not fools enough to 
start a fight with empty coffers — it’s not I who’ve starved 
you. You got the habit before I was born — half of you 
started on it before you were born. An’ after all these 
years of short commons, isn’t it worth tightening another 
hole in your belts to get something like a life for yourself 
and your children? You don’t want them to start where 
you started — in 4 the Shades.’ ” 

There was a roar at the words. How many of those 
bent-legged, narrow-chested men had started there; where 
no man would willingly employ his own son. 

“ In this war — for it is a war — whatever happens, re- 
member this: we are fighting for our rights; fighting to 
make life better an’ cleaner for ourselves and our children. 
Morrison’s fighting for his rights, too — in his own way, 
perhaps — but it isn’t our way. He’s built us chapels. 
Right enough! He’d save our souls and keep our bellies 
empty. It’s his way — I don’t want to abuse him or abuse 
any one — but again I repeat it’s not our way. An’ I’d 
rather take the risk I’m takin’ than the risk he’s takin’. 

“ The other day he was booed as he went through the 
town. I don’t hold with that: you should behave as men 
and women, not as children. It’s a free world. He can’t 
make you work if you don’t want to; and you can’t make 
him pay the wages if he don’t want to. 

“ But all the same one thing stuck, and still sticks in my 
mind. They say as how he was half broken-hearted about 
it and that he said he never thought to be sneeped like that 
in his own town. It minded me — and it’ll mind you — of 
another man as we’ve all read of who : — 4 went very sor- 
rowful because he had great possessions.’ ” 

Suddenly Burton’s face lightened, and he gave a short 
laugh. “ For all the talk about us Trade Union secretaries, 
to look at things as they are now, I should say that’s about 
the last thing I shall ever be given cause to sorrow over,” 
he added, and laughed again; whilst the people laughed 
with him. It was like the breaking of a thunder-storm. 


CHAPTER IX 


HERE is always an ugly interval between the time 
when the first excitement of any movement dies 



JL away, and people settle down to solid, everyday 
endurance. 

This crook in the road was past. 

Long lines of boys and girls — the two sexes curiously 
unmixed : — still swept the streets at evening, singing “ Rule 
Britannia,” or rough strike chants, converted from hymns 
and set to hymn tunes. 

But, for the most part, the men and women stayed at 
home: save when the handful of workers still crept in and 
out of the mills, while the pickets gathered in little dun- 
coloured groups staring contemptuously, though there was 
no violence and very little jeering. 

The police stood by with idle hands ; there were not even 
drunkards to arrest. The streets were empty and grey : as 
silent as though it were Sunday. “ Different enough from 
the Collieries at strike time,” they said. 

But the idleness bit into the men; perhaps all the more 
for their quiet: while there was little enough left for the 
women to cook out of the five shillings a week strike pay. 
They kept the children in bed as much as they could, so 
they’d not get so hungry, and the empty hours hung heavily 
on their hands. 

In some of the houses the blinds were always down: 
things were moved out and away at night. For the Edge 
people are not of the beggar class which displays its sores. 

Negotiations went on. Negotiations which they could 
not follow. 

They got into a stubborn, ugly mood. Suggestions came 
from the masters which Burton and the committee exam- 
ined and placed before them : suggestions which with a very 
few alterations would meet their case. But they would 
have nothing in the way of a compromise even though, in 


60 


BELLAMY 


61 


the end, it would benefit them. The harder life became the 
more dogged they grew: they were past reasoning, they 
could only hold on. 

Walter was working hard with the relief committee. He 
had kept his word and brought out all the warehouse work- 
ers in his own mill and many besides : forced them into the 
Union, though he did not appeal to their honour or their 
manhood as Burton would have done. 

Instead he explained to them that directly all the stock in 
hand was packed up, and sent off, there would be nothing 
for them to do ; and a pretty position they would find them- 
selves in. Hung in space, with no regular work or pay. 
None of the honour and glory of having joined in the gen- 
eral revolt : not even five shillings a week to comfort them- 
selves with. 

Some protested that the masters would keep them on ; but 
in their hearts they knew better than that. They did not 
even pay them when they were on their compulsory week’s 
holidays, and the mills were shut down. They were no 
more to their masters than so many shuttles in a loom, and 
easily replaced, for only too many young people were bitten 
with the idea of gentility. 

Walter did not trust any one too much ; but he had more 
confidence in an association than in any individual mill- 
owner. 

He used burning words, flaming phrases: but there was 
never any propaganda with a cooler head, or colder heart at 
the back of it. The only time when he was really stirred 
to feeling was when the people cheered him, as he swept 
his proselytes in batches to the Union buildings to have their 
names registered. 

Burton honestly tried to like the young fellow ; recognised 
his use, the influence he had. But he sensed a motive that 
did not harmonise with his own, though the result was good 
and he gave him all the credit possible. Indeed it was won- 
derful how Bellamy could lead men and women, make them 
see as he saw — or seemed to see. Though an astute girl 
typist who worked in the Union office declared that his 
sway would never prove more than temporary: because it 
was backed by no ideal. That he led : that he did not in- 
spire. Directly he grew tired of the game his influence 


62 


BELLAMY 


would be gone. And on that point she was right, for in a 
couple of years the warehouse branch of the Union had 
petered away to nothing. 

Meanwhile the two men were as one on several practical 
points. They saw that there were many ways in which the 
owners might be met, without any loss. One big man had 
complained that the strike committee wished to “ humiliate 
him,” puffed out his cheeks and declared that he “ would 
not be humiliated.” 

It was a weak thing to say. But it voiced the feelings of 
most of his party. They were willing to accept almost any 
proposals as long as they were couched in a different form 
to those to which they had — at the very first — given a 
blank refusal. 

Walter — who attended all the meetings now, as repre- 
sentative of the warehouse workers, returning Higgins’ 
heavy scowl with his sweetest smile — realised this even 
better than Burton, for his mind was more subtle : realised, 
indeed, almost every corner round which it was possible for 
the human intelligence to wriggle its way. 

The masters hated him. He was more eloquent than any 
of them: tangled them up in flowery phrases. If they 
roared he cooed. It was no good trying to trip him up by 
quoting the Bible or the foreign Bourses, for he was before 
them. If old Peter Morrison rolled forth any one of his 
well-worn Latin platitudes, Bellamy responded with a 
French bon mot. His hard bright eyes were everywhere. 
One of the women declared that his tongue was like that 
of a lizard after flies. 

The idea took : it was so apt. Besides his whole person- 
ality bore out the idea — his quickness, his bright eyes, his 
cold-blooded way of looking at things — and for years he 
bore the nickname of “ the Lizard ” or “ Lizard Bellamy ” 
in Edge. 

All the owners were anxious to get their mills going 
again : pliable, ready to seize on any pretext that would save 
their faces. Trade was slipping away from them; the busi- 
est season was at hand, and if they failed to get their supply 
on the market they would be pushed on one side. Several 
of the mills were really owned by companies, and their 
shareholders were getting anxious. 


BELLAMY 


63 

The threatened reduction in the wages of the artificial 
workers was considerable, but would it recoup them for the 
losses of the strike? 

There was not one of them that would not have given 
way, but for old Peter Morrison and Higgins : and Higgins 
was the worse of the two. 

He was a self-made man. He had climbed up regardless 
of whom he trod underfoot. And now he meant to keep up, 
and at the same time to keep others down. 

At one meeting Burton pleaded the distress of the people. 

“ It’s the way they’ve set themselves up to live,” retorted 
Higgins. “ They go ter work dressed as though they was 
goin’ ter church. If they’d be content to wear clogs an’ a 
shawl an’ eat black bread, which is good enough for any 
working man or woman, we shouldn’t be hearing all this 
fal-daddle now about better wages and poverty.” 

The words went the round of the town : — “ Black bread 
Higgins ” he was called ; and they spat when they spoke of 
him. 

Three more of the owners broke away from the combine, 
and now only eleven were left at the meetings. 

Old Peter Morrison was very stout : he could not get up 
to the table, but had to draw his chair a little back; sitting 
always with his large fat white hands outspread on his 
knees. 

“ I’m fighting for the dignity of the Constitution, for the 
Empire. What you women really want’s not more wages, 
but more modesty, to stay at home and look after your hus- 
bands and children; to live the life God appointed you to, 
instead of trapesing down the town, stirring up strife,” he 
said, with disapproving eye on the women of the committee. 

“ Chances enough yer give us o’ stayin’ yome, with the 
wages yer pay our meysters ! ” retorted one of them bitterly : 
a worthy representative of the doublers, having worked at 
the same task since she was eleven. 

“ You think because we’re your betters, because we own 
the mills, we’re without troubles, that we’ve got nothing to 
put up with.” Mr. Morrison’s voice was always mildly 
reasonable, for the first moment or so a stranger might miss 
the cast-iron obstinacy at the back of it : “ You forget that 

not only have we all the responsibility and risk, but are of 


BELLAMY 


64 

like flesh and blood with yourselves, heir to the same ills: 
money doesn’t give us happiness.” 

“ Likely not : but yer heir to summat else besides ills. 
An’ whatever ills ye’ve ’ad in yer flesh, Peter Morrison, 
ye’ve never ’ad ter stand ten hours a day doublin’ with an 
eight months’ child in yer womb. I’ll lay yer that ! ” shrilled 
Mrs. Street. 

“ Vulgar brute ! ” muttered young Clutton, who had been 
to Oxford and travelled on the Continent, returning to Edge 
to bewail the fact that he was the eldest son and must step 
into his father’s shoes. 

“ Life’s a vulgar affair altogether,” answered another 
man, Rivers, Morrison’s own son-in-law. He felt in hon- 
our bound to stick to the old man, who had helped him over 
a bad season ; but for all that his conscience drove him to- 
wards the side of the workers. 


CHAPTER X 


M RS. RIVERS was young and pretty, and so deli- 
cate, that it seemed as if her parents must have 
kept all their strength for themselves. 

Her husband adored her. During the time that her two 
children were coming — her long and difficult labour, her 
slow recoveries — he had grown sick and faint to see 
women go to the mills in the condition they did. It was not 
pity for them; it was the personal fear of a just or jealous 
God who might revenge their sufferings through the crea- 
ture he loved best in the world. 

Elsie Rivers had felt for them too ; and in much the same 
way. She was in terror lest her children should catch any 
of the infantile complaints which swept the town, or the 
still more fatal germs of consumption. If she heard that 
any child was ill she sent soup and jellies to propitiate her 
God : hung in fear, as though it were her own, till it recov- 
ered ; or followed the little body to the grave in an agonised 
imagining of herself as chief mourner. 

She was like a person who tried to conciliate fate by toss- 
ing scraps to it, as one might to some fierce dog. 

But, for all that, the dog was at the other side of the wall ; 
till the strike began, when it came nearer to her; with the 
result that — after her first panic — she began to realise the 
people as human like herself ; with much the same affections 
and feelings, thoughts and reservations. It was these reser- 
vations which surprised her more than anything. She had 
imagined the working class as all on the surface: like pic- 
tures done in dead black and white. The white were those 
who saluted their masters' daughter respectfully when they 
passed her: the black those who scowled and looked the 
other way. 

They had never been openly rude as they were during the 
strike. But in their rudeness she recognised humanity. 
Realised that these people were parti-coloured like herself, 

65 


66 


BELLAMY 


only infinitely stronger and braver ; taking risks — coolly, 
as part of their everyday life — which she would not have 
dared to venture on. 

One day when Rivers got home from a meeting he found 
his wife crying over her household books. 

“You silly child !” he said. “Fancy worrying yourself 
over those things like that. I won’t have it — do you hear ? 

I won’t have it ! ” 

Laughing tenderly he pulled her up from her chair; pre- 
tended to shake her. Then held her close and raised her 
face to his with one hand under her chin. 

“ Don’t you worry your dear head over accounts ; we’ll 
pull through all right — keep the pot boiling and get a week 
or two in Scotland directly you’re about again,” he added; 
for at that time she was expecting her third child : — “ Find 
something, to put some colour into those pale cheeks of 
yours; never fear.” 

“ It’s not that, Arthur,” she began hesitatingly. Then 
went on with a curious air of desperation : — “ I’ve been 
looking over the milk bill.” All the milk used in the Rivers’ 
household was — for fear of contamination — brought in 
sealed cans, from a farm miles away over the moors. 

Her husband laughed, a deep jovial laugh of sheer relief. 

“Well I suppose we’ll hardly go broke over a milk bill; 
not yet anyhow.” 

“ Arthur, you don’t understand ; it’s Do you know 

that it comes to more — just that alone — for us and the 
children — the servants hardly drink any — than the whole 
week’s wage that those women are fighting for? Why 
baby’s alone — now that the doctor’s put him on whey and 
cream — is more than the strike pay which whole families 
are living on. Women — widows with four or five chil- 
dren. The thought came suddenly like a flash. I never 
realised it before — God must have opened my eyes, for 
some reason.” 

She had been brought up in the strictest Wesleyan faith. 
But religion — which her father wore like he had worn his 
Mayoral chain, — as an insignia of dignified respectability 
— was a vital thing to Elsie Rivers, as far as her knowledge 
went. “ Think of it, Arthur ! Rent, food and clothes — 


BELLAMY 67 

everything ! It will hardly bear thinking of ; it’s too awful. 
But there it is, it’s got to be faced.” 

“ I know : ” Rivers left her, and moving to the window 
stood staring out with his hands in his pockets. 

“ What’s to be done ? Arthur, what’s to be done ? ” His 
wife had sunk back in her chair : but now she rose and stood 
behind him. 

“ I can’t bear it ! I can’t — everything I eat and drink, 
every penny I spend, I calculate how much it is out of some 
woman’s wages. And now that piteous strike pay — five 
shillings a week! Five shillings! What’s to be done? Ar- 
thur, don’t stand there.” Her voice broke off sharply. 
“ Don’t stand there staring out of the window as if it didn’t 
matter to you — • there was another woman yesterday died 
in child-birth.” 

“ Yet it’s the women who are holding out ; won’t let the 
men give in.” 

“ Well, think what that means ! That they’d rather die 
than live, if things are cut down any lower. It’s got to be 
stopped. You men don’t feel it — you don’t know,” she 
caught at his arm and almost shook him. “ You don’t 
care ” she hesitated : then added slowly, “ as I care.” 

“You know I care:” he flung round upon her sharply. 
“ It’s because you realise how I care that you turn upon me 
like this. It’s getting on both our nerves. You’re quiet 
enough with your father because you realise that there 
you’re up against something that you can’t touch or turn.” 

“Yet he’s always been so good to me: given me every- 
thing I’ve asked for — spoilt me. Why, Arthur, you your- 
self have always said he spoilt me.” 

She spoke petulantly as though it were her husband’s 
fault. He was the only one with whom she ever showed 
such a mood. She loved him so that what pained him 
doubled her own hurt, rubbed sore between them. 

“ Sometimes I think that people who are kindest, most 
indulgent to their own children, are hardest with other peo- 
ple,” answered Rivers. “ Look at Higgins now, and his 
Rose : the workers may eat black bread, but he was bring- 
ing home the very finest strawberries for her all the way 
from Manchester last week. Every good thing — even love 


68 


BELLAMY 


— seems capable of being turned to evil, Elsie. That’s what 
makes life so damnably hard to live.” 

“ I don’t see why it should. Our children don’t make us 
selfish.” 

“ I don’t know. If we had to go and live in one of those 
little red boxes at the south end of the town, year in year 
out, could bring ourselves to take our children there, to eat 
the same food, drink the same milk as those children do, 
we’d force things to alter : nothing else would matter. Now 
we’re sorry — but we’re safe and they’re safe. That makes 
all the difference.” 

“ It’s the masters ! The masters must be made to give in. 
Arthur, you have influence — you yourself. You must 
break away; go back to the old conditions: start your mill 
again.” 

“ And what good would it do, unless the rest were with 
me ? Alienate your father for nothing. I can’t do it : the 
whole thing’s practically run with his money now. After 
all it’s he, and he only, who’s keeping the strike going ; and 
you know it, Elsie.” 

" It’s his principles — he never could give in.” 

“ Principles ? Prejudices! With prejudices instead of 
principles and convictions instead of hearts. You Mor- 
risons ! I believe you’d let the whole world go rather than 
budge a step.” 

It was an unfair hit. But when two people care for each 
other they do hit in that way. They can afford to. “ But 
mind this,” added Rivers, turning round and taking her by 
her shoulders, with a sort of furious tenderness. “ I’ll not 
have you worrying! Do you hear? I won’t have it. You 
ought to go away from it all ; you can do no good and what’s 
the use of risking your own life and the child’s. By God, 
I’d rather the factory, the town, the people — aye and your 
own father too — were wiped out of existence, than that 
you should worry yourself as you are doing.” 

“ That’s what it comes back to — in the end. You and I, 
and our children.” 

“ Well, after all, what else does it come to with any one? 
If the truth were known?” 


CHAPTER XI 


Y OUNG Mrs. Rivers had been ordered long drives; 
to get her out in the air as much as possible, and 
away from the town; which she refused to leave 
excepting for a few hours at a time. 

Rivers felt that it would be more cheerful for her if she 
took the children; but gave in to her refusal, thinking that 
perhaps they got on her nerves. 

But as a matter of fact she was ashamed of showing 
them ; so plump and daintily dressed. It was like flaunting 
her jewels in the eyes of the people. 

The drives themselves were a long drawn-out agony to 
her. 

The well-appointed carriage and fine horses, which her 
father sent for her each afternoon, made her feel as if she 
could creep under the seat and hide her head in very shame. 

Yet, with an almost heroic courage, she obeyed the doc- 
tor’s orders. She would do all that was possible for the 
coming child, whatever it cost her. 

One day they were returning to the town, when — half a 
mile out, round a sharp corner — they came upon a funeral 
procession just leaving the cemetery; spreading its whole 
width across the narrow road. 

Elsie Rivers rose from her seat and leant across to the 
coachman. 

Can’t you turn back and go another way ? ” 

The man twisted half round and touched his hat. “ It ’ud 
taeke us a matter o’ three miles out, Mum. Just another 
quarter o’ a mile an’ I can turn off by the West Bank an’ 
get home in ten minutes. The horses ’as been a fairish way 
already, you see, Mum.” 

Elsie did not insist. She was rather frightened of her 
father’s old coachman ; and it was true that they had taken 
a long drive. 

All the same the horses were still fresh, or anxious to get 
69 


70 


BELLAMY 


home to their stables. The man kept pulling them back; 
but they bored gradually on till they were right in the midst 
of the straggling tail of the procession. 

It was very long: stretching as far as the eye could reach. 
Elsie saw it climbing up the bare hillside, one shabby mourn- 
ing-coach and the empty hearse. Then a crowd of people, 
like a dingy ribband trailed across the green landscape. 

Still the fretting horses pushed on, till they became part 
of it ; and the people were thick at either side : their faces, 
unnaturally white, beaded with perspiration, their drab 
clothes thick with dust. 

They stepped mechanically to one side and stared at Elsie 
as the carriage moved slowly forward. 

Now and then she caught the words: “Morrison’s 
wench ! ” But for the most part they were silent, regarding 
her with the same dull contempt which they showed towards 
the “ blacklegs,” who crept into her father’s mill. 

A criminal being led to execution could not have suffered 
from a more agonised sense of fear and shame. Yet with 
this feeling came a desperate desire to know who was dead. 
And at a sudden twist of the road, where the crowd thick- 
ened so that the horses had to be stopped, she leant over the 
side of the carriage. 

“ Who was it? Whose funeral ? ” 

For a moment or two there was a sullen pause. Then a 
man answered. 

“ Missus Slade.” 

“ Who ?” 

“ A winder, as worked ” the fellow hesitated. Then 

jerked his head in the direction of the great mill that topped 
the town. He could not have spoken the name without an 
oath. 

“ What — what did she die of ? ” 

“ Nothing you need be feared o’ catchin’, me fine Mad- 
am,” broke in a woman’s shrill voice : — “ She died o’ 
starvation; that’s what she died on! Oh, God damn them 
as murdered ’er, seys Oi.” 

“ It wur like this you see, Mum.” The man, close against 
the carriage, spoke almost apologetically : — “ She’s gotten 
four children, and the strike pay wurn’t much. She’d no 
strength not to speak on by the time ’er time corned.” 


BELLAMY 


71 


“ How do you mean ? ” Elsie Rivers’ heart seemed to lie 
like a cold stone in her breast. She knew so well what was 
coming. “ How do you mean ? When — when her time 
came ? ” 

The man flushed darkly, but he did not answer ; and an- 
other woman in the crowd, Mrs. Street this time, took up 
the tale. 

“ She died in child-bed, if you want to know. But, as 
there’s a God above us, it wur yer feyther, curse ’im, as 
killed ’er — an’ that’s the truth, Elsie Morrison ; taeke it, or 
leave it.” 

“ She was clemmed — yer see, Mum ; clemmed for days 
a’fore,” put in the man again, in his gentle, wearied voice. 
“ The mattress was gone from the bed an’ all. There 
weren’t nothing left fur ter sell.” 

“Aye, what do yer think on that? You as is goin’ the 
saeme gait, when nothing won’t not be good enough for yer. 
Not as much as a mattress left fur she ter lie upon, when 
the pains o’ ’Ell gotton ’old o’ she.” 

“ Horrible, horrible ! ” 

With a feeling as if she must take it standing, Elsie sprang 
to her feet. At the same moment the horses moved on a 
step or two, and she lurched forward against the driver’s 
seat; then fell back with a shrill cry. “ It must be stopped 
— it must! ” 

But no one heeded her words, for the silent procession 
was suddenly alive with hisses and jeers, and cries of 
“ Shaeme, shaeme ! ” 

The carriage was right in the midst of it now, only a few 
yards from the one shabby coach. 

Some of the younger men caught at the horses’ heads. 
To old Burgess this was an act of desecration, and with a 
complete loss of self-control he leant forward and flicked 
at them with his whip : — “ Let ’em ’orses o’ mine alone ! do 
yer ’ear ? Let ’em alone ! ” he cried. 

It was a fatal thing to do, like a flame to tinder, for they 
only caught more firmly at the heads of the rearing horses ; 
surging close round the carriage, shouting and gesticulating. 
Individually there was not a man among them who would 
have insulted any woman in Elsie Rivers’ condition ; but the 
spirit of the mob seized them. They had . been quiet so 


72 BELLAMY 

long, now it seemed as if they didn’t mind what they did or 
said. 

As for the women, they had no pity. They had suffered 
too much themselves, and now hung, like flies, round the 
carriage. Those patient, hard-working women who had 
gone so punctually to work every day — each like a tiny 
cog in the vast machinery of the mills — speaking their mind 
out for the first time for years: telling her all that they 
thought of her and her breed, shaking their twisted work- 
worn fists in her very face. 

“You fools! You damn fools!” Walter Bellamy’s 
clear high voice broke in upon the babel. Pushing his way 
through the crowd, he put his foot upon the step leading to 
the box, swung himself up to old Burgess’ side, snatched 
the whip from the old man’s hand, and broke it in two 
pieces, then again in four, across his knee — Morrison’s 
whip ! 

It was a sheer piece of theatrical bombast, but Bellamy 
knew his people. To them it seemed emblematical — the 
breaking of King Morrison himself ; and for a moment they 
hung silent and staring. 

Taking instant advantage of the pause Walter Bellamy 
swung round, one knee upon the seat, his right arm raised 
with the broken pieces of the whip faggot-wise in his hand. 

“ Now look here — you’ve got to drop this. Mrs. Rivers’ 
ill — you can see it.” 

“ That’s nawt ter do wid thee, Lizard Bellamy ! ” retorted 
a sulky voice. But the rest hung silent, checked to sudden 
thought. 

“ No, it ain’t ! Yer roight there. An’ it warn’t be nought 
ter Oi if half a dozen o’ you men an’ women are set dancin’ 
in mid-air with a rope round your neck. For if she dies 
it ’ull be murder — mind you, murder. An’ murder’s not a 
pretty thing ! ” he retorted in a broad, deliberate dialect. 

“ You’ve fought the fight with clean hands up to now,” 
he went on. “ What do you want to go spoiling it for, just 
at the end? You fools — you silly fools you!” 

The crowd shrank away from the sides of the carriage. 
Elsie Rivers was huddled up in one corner, in a faint: so 
white and death-like, that Bellamy’s words cut home. 

For a moment he himself half believed that the woman 


BELLAMY 


73 


might be dead ; then caught a stir among the laces at her 
throat, and seeing Jane Irwin’s fair little face, uplifted like 
a flower among the crowd, called to her : 

“ Jane Irwin, Jane! Get into the carriage along o’ Mrs. 
Rivers, Jane ! ” 

The people parted, with frightened sidelong glances at the 
fainting woman. Some one opened the door, and the girl, 
in her neat black frock, stepped into the carriage; flung one 
arm round Mrs. Rivers, drew her head down low upon her 
shoulder, and began to unfasten the collar of her dress, 
cooing over her as though she had been a child. 

For a moment Walter Bellamy regarded her: his eyes 
bright, his lips pursed up. One could always depend on 
Jane, matter-of-fact little Jane : she was the best second any 
man ever had, he thought; then seated himself at Burgess’ 
side. 

“ Now drive, you fool ! ” he cried. “ Drive for all you’re 
worth, if that’s anything.” 

Purple with rage the old man gathered up the reins — * 
putting out one hand mechanically in search of the whip — 
then shook them, and the horses started forward, while the 
people fell back on either side. 

They were near the corner by then: the next moment 
they were round it, and straight on the clear road for Rivers’ 
house. 

Glancing back Walter- saw that Mrs. Rivers’ eyes were 
open ; that she was sobbing in hysterical gasps and that 
Jane Irwin was patting her — as one pats a child to soothe 
it — and murmuring over her : 

“ There — there — there now, don’t thee taeke on, dwant 
thee — it ull all be roight now, — me doe, me poore doe.” 

At dawn next day Arthur Rivers’ third child made its 
entry into the world — a miserable, tragic-eyed creature — 
which might have been the Scape-Goat for the starvation 
of the whole town — while two hours later his wife slipped 
very quietly away, out of it all. 

“ A sheer case of fright,” said the doctor : “ there was 
nothing really to kill her; nothing really wrong. She held 
up splendidly till she heard the baby was all right. Then it 
was like snuffing out a candle. Nothing could save her.” 

She and her husband were the only ones — on the master’s 


74 


BELLAMY 


side — that really cared for the workers. And they were 
the only ones that suffered. 

One by one the other mills gave way. The partners or 
directors came down from London and made a fuss. They 
wanted to get off to their grouse shooting, or yachting, in 
peace now that the London season was over. 

Morrison was the last to give way. But Higgins saw that 
it was inevitable; he did not mean to lose any more of his 
hard earnings, and since Elsie’s death he had been gradu- 
ally elbowing old Peter Morrison to one side. 

It was a great triumph for the people. The hard-silk 
workers went back with an extra shilling a week, and the 
artificial workers to the same rate of pay, for which they 
had fought so hard ; while twisters kept the masters to their 
rash promise of an extra two shillings a week. 

In addition to this at the last moment, with victory in his 
hands, Burton squeezed out a better rate for the weavers. 

It was a victory all along the line. But it had lasted five 
months: had cost them dear. The Union coffers were 
empty. It would be years before the people got over the 
pinch, and there was a look in all the young babies’ faces, 
which wrung Burton’s heart. He knew he had been right 
— -and yet he sometimes wondered. 

Rivers’ third child lived — in a fashion! Always flat 
upon its back, staring up at the sky with a heart-breaking air 
of patient enquiry, as if asking why such things should be. 

Peter Morrison was often seen walking by the side of its 
long wheeled chair. He was not the man he had been ; and 
on his wide flabby face, and on the child’s peaked little 
countenance, there was much the same expression of hurt 
wonder; as if some toy had suddenly been snatched away, 
for no reason whatever. 


CHAPTER XII 


T HE progress of the strike fascinated Rose Higgins. 
Not that she had the faintest idea of what it all 
meant: its far-reaching issues: its suffering: its 
ironical humours. 

For her, there were the masters : more or less well-regu- 
lated machines set up for the express purpose of supplying 
their children with money ; and the common people. These 
latter interesting, merely from the fact that they formed a 
base to the flamboyant figure of Walter Bonnet Bellamy. 

As a father James Higgins satisfied all requirements. 
Other people might, and did, both fear and hate him. But 
by a few sweet words Rose could reduce him to a condition 
so pliable that it was easy enough to twist him round her 
little finger. 

All he asked of her was that she should be “ the lady/’ 
Always beautifully dressed and completely at leisure. He 
hated to see her doing anything beyond playing the piano or 
reading a novel. Even the sight of sewing irritated him. 

“ What do you want to let my girl be spoilin’ her eyes 
over the like o’ that?” he would ask his wife angrily — it 
was always “ my girl ” and “ your boy ” though he was 
equally the parent of both. “ Aren’t there servants enough 
ter do it for her? Have I ever cut up rough at the dress- 
making bills, or anything you ask me for the wench’s fal- 
daddles? ” Fal-daddles was a favourite word of his. “ I’ll 
pay, an’ I have paid, ter the tune of a couple of thousand, ter 
have her brought up as a lady. But there’s one thing I 
won’t do — an’ I’ve told you that a’fore — pay a dog an’ 
do the barkin’ meself : or see her do it neither.” 

Mrs. Higgins was miserable in her gentility. She looked 
back on the Monday mornings when she used to get up at 
four and do a big day’s washing before going off to the mill, 
as some women look back at love’s young dream. Her only 
happy days were those when the servants left in a body — 

75 


BELLAMY 


76 

as they occasionally did, for Higgins required a lot of bark- 
ing for his money — and she could indulge in a debauch of 
housework. 

She could never resist running her fingers along the ledges 
and shelves in search of dust; could scarcely bear to sit in 
the room while the parlour-maid laid the table. She feared 
her husband and daughter, and yet despised them both. 
The one was a pompous, tyrannical man ; the other a spoilt, 
useless child. 

She gave in to Rose’s extravagance and idleness with a 
sort of ironical bitter pleasure: did her best to intensify it. 
“ That’s not the sort of thing for a lady such as you to have 
— or to wear : ” she would say. 

Only when the girl was ill, or in trouble, did she love her, 
realise her as human. 

Rose did not love either of them. She was incapable of 
love. But she was hot-blooded and vain, and she loved 
love: its caresses and adulation. Though by the time she 
turned her attention to Walter Bellamy she was already a 
little clogged by what she regarded as her victories: mis- 
taking men’s easily roused lust for love, as many a woman 
has done before her. 

Besides this, she liked what she had heard about him: 
that — “ he didn’t care a twopenny damn for any one.” It 
would be a triumph to make him care; while everything 
about him, his swinging walk, his strength, and fine figure 
thrilled her flesh. 

Clutton and Son was angry at the prominent part Bel- 
lamy had taken in the strike, the way he had led the other 
warehouse workers, and refused to take him back. 

But as usual he fell on his feet. Old Sir Peter Morrison 
had heard the part which he played in that scene, the day 
before Elsie’s death, and insisted that he should be given 
a good place in the warehouse of his own mill : much against 
the wish of Higgins who detested any one cleverer than 
himself, or cleverer in a different way; and was particu- 
larly distrustful of what he called “ the gift of the gab.” 

But Walter got the position and kept it. And climbed up 
and up, despite Higgins. 

Elsie had clung to Jane all through those dark hours, re- 
fusing to let her out of her sight. After her death Rivers 


BELLAMY 


77 

asked the girl to become part of his household: help look 
after the children and take special charge of the wizened 
baby. But Jane’s mother was dead; there were several 
children not yet old enough to work, and a bullying, drunken 
father, so that her capable little hands were as full as they 
could hold between home and mill. She even took her 
meals as did the mothers : carrying a butty and bit of meat, 
or cheese, to work with her ; and eating it on the way home 
so as to have more time for preparing the children’s food, 
and making them clean for school. 

Walter Bellamy thought that she had made a mistake. 
“ Rivers is a young man : he’ll be sure to marry again ; and 
why not you as well as any one else? You’re as pretty as 
paint, you know you are, Jane. And look what a lift it 
would give to the others — to all of us — if only you played 
your cards properly.” 

Jane was hurt, though she would not have shown it for 
worlds. Walter had always said that he wanted to marry 
her: would marry her when he could afford it — if she 
would have him. For, certain as he was about everything 
else regarding her, he was never quite certain how she felt 
towards him. And candid as Jane was on most points, she 
was yet woman enough not to enlighten him on this. 

At this time Walter Bellamy was swept by occasional tor- 
nadoes of passion, greed and exultation : never quite off his 
feet, for he was always too conscious of his enjoyment. 
There were times when he liked to feel like a Turkish Sul- 
tan; intensely masculine, all compelling. He had many 
light passing loves, and devoured them, as it were. 

But with Jane Irwin he scarcely remembered that he had 
a body. She was such “ a rum little customer ” ; kept him 
so well amused; though there was always something be- 
tween them, clear and hard as a sheet of plate-glass. 

But, in spite of his affection for the girl, “ getting on ” 
was so much his real religion that he would have sacrificed 
her cheerfully, both for his sake and her own: delighted to 
have seen her in the position of Rivers’ wife. 

But Jane realised that the idea was ridiculous. She did 
not want to go where she would be “ sneeped ” either as 
wife or servant. Indeed she did not want to marry any- 
body ; though she had plenty of suitors, for she was a hard- 


BELLAMY 


78 

working little body, and a wife is a valuable acquisition in 
Edge, where many of them earn more than the men. 

But she did not mean to be married to be made use of ; 
she was shrewd enough for that. If she married any one 
she would rather marry Wally, who regarded her as a “ rum 
little customer,” than those others, who wanted her for 
what she could make. 

For all this, if any one made the suggestion she repudi- 
ated it with scorn. 

“ Marry Walter Bellamy ! I’d as lief marry a tee-to-tum ; 
alius on the whirl.” 

Rose adored the whirl, was dazzled by it. To her mind 
Walter Bellamy was not like a tee-to-tum, but like a fine 
humming-top, which spun in a mist of rainbow tints: so 
wonderful that she never had time to realise the real shape 
and colour of it. 

About this time she was always finding excuses to go to 
the mill; penetrating to the warehouse to enquire whether 
her father was there. 

She wore silk underskirts which rustled, and all her 
clothes were perfumed. She liked to see the girls and 
young men turn round and stare after her whispering; for 
she was as vain as any spoilt child, had no idea that they 
could experience anything but envious admiration ; felt her- 
self like a vision floating into the everyday orbit of Walter 
Bellamy’s life. 

There was no plate-glass here. Even if she did not ac- 
tually touch Walter, it always seemed as if she was not only 
touching but enfolding. She would lean right over him and 
ask him a question ; her warm breath on his neck as he bent 
above his work, in which she professed an absorbing in- 
terest. 

But, so far, it was all on her side, for the young man had 
no intention of jeopardising his position; though he some- 
times thought — coolly enough — that it might be a good 
thing to marry her ; for she was an only daughter and Hig- 
gins was at daggers drawn with his son, who was as useless 
and pleasure-loving as Rose herself. 

But in the boy’s case it was all different. For the father 
regarded him with contemptuous antagonism; would have 


BELLAMY 


79 

ground him down to the desk, denied him every pleasure 
which he himself had not known. 

“ I did without an’ you can do without,” was his unvary- 
ing answer to any request. 

For he forgot that during his youth work was stimulated 
by necessity: while he complained of his son’s association 
with light women; regardless of the fact that, in the class 
of life where he naturally belonged, an early marriage was 
possible, almost inevitable. That he himself had been a 
married man and his own master at an age when he ex- 
pected his son to remain a docile child, loving work better 
than play. 


CHAPTER XIII 


W HEN Bellamy had been at Morrison’s a year Rose 
reached her twentieth birthday, and insisted that 
she should be allowed to give a tennis party: 
not at her own home but at the Club, with a tent and hired 
waiters, and ices. 

Of course she got her way: though her mother regarded 
the idea with bitterness. Rose had every chance of mixing 
with the best people ; while Bertie — her Bertie — was kept 
so under that it was not surprising that he found his princi- 
pal pleasure in billiards at the “ Blue Boar.” 

She used to lie awake at night and think of it; of how 
she would put the matter calmly and precisely before her 
husband so that he must understand. 

But the instant she broached the subject and Higgins 
roared at her she became confused and inarticulate. The 
boy was the same ; he could not state his case, he could only 
complain : there are many people like that. 

There was some discussion as to who should be asked. 

“ It’s my party, and I’m going to ask who I like,” pouted 
Rose, holding on to the lapels of her father’s coat. “It’s 
my party and I’m going to have what I like, and ask who 
I like, eh, Curmudgeon ? ” 

“ All right, my lass, only mind there’s no cheese-paring. 
We’ll show ’em what we can do, slap-up and no mistake. 
An’ look you, all the bills in next day, an’ a percentage off 
for ready money — that’s business.” 

Rose and a girl friend wrote the invitations, filling them 
in on printed cards. One of the first was addressed to Wal- 
ter B. Bellamy, Esq. 

There was a great deal of giggling over it. 

“ I don’t know if he’ll come,” said Rose doubtfully ; 
“ he’s awfully stand-off and proud, is Walter Bellamy — I 
wonder what the other B’s for — I think it’s such a lovely 
name, don’t you, Julie?” 

80 


BELLAMY 


81 


“ Bellamy — Rose Bellamy ! ” laughed the other girl, who 
was a confidante : — “ That’s a lovely name if you like ! Oh, 
he’ll come right enough, you’ll see.” 

He did come, but he did the inevitably correct thing first. 
With fine candour he took the invitation straight to Hig- 
gins, choosing a time when he was with his senior partner 
in the office. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir : I didn’t know Mr. Morrison was 
here,” he said, hesitating in the doorway, his bright eyes full 
on Higgins. 

‘‘All right, my lad, come in, come in,” said old Peter 
Morrison. And Walter came in; and stood before Rose’s 
father, with an air of deprecatory frankness. 

“ I’m sorry, sir, to trouble you ; but I received an invita- 
tion ” 

“Well?” The word was like a bark. 

“ Miss Higgins was kind enough — generous enough to 
send me an invitation to her birthday party ; and I thought 
I’d better ask you whether you would care for me to accept.” 

“ Very right. Shows a right spirit that, eh, Higgins ? ” 
put in Morrison. 

“ Of course it must be just as you like, sir,” said Walter. 
He was a charming figure as he stood there between the two 
older men ; old Peter Morrison fatter and whiter than ever, 
pompous and ridiculous; yet somehow pathetic on account 
of that oddly baffled look which had lain in his small light 
eyes since his only child’s death, as though a feeble soul was 
struggling out from the mass of flesh. Higgins was rough 
and unwieldy ; in corduroys with a red handkerchief round 
his neck he might have looked a fine man, but the smooth 
broadcloth had coarsened him into a bully. 

Walter was, as usual, dressed in blue serge, with a white 
shirt, turned down collar and bird’s-eye tie. He was lean- 
ing a little forward ; but it was in an attitude of respect, for 
he never stooped or slouched : was as well knit, clean limbed 
a young fellow as one could meet with anywhere ; glowing 
with vitality and health. Higgins felt puzzled what to do. 
Rose was a silly little chit to have sent such an invitation : 
girls were always getting fal-daddle ideas of being “ kind 
to everybody ” : ideas that in a man might be termed social- 
istic. Still she would be very angry if he treated her as a 


82 


BELLAMY 


child, and annulled her invitation. Then there was the 
senior partner to consider. 

“ Oh, I suppose it ’ull be all right if my daughter’s sent 
it — providing you can get off in time,” he said grudgingly. 

“ It’s Saturday, sir,” answered Walter with great respect 
— Rose had taken care of that. “ And thank you very 

much ” He hesitated a moment, and glanced from one 

face to another. “ It’s immensely kind of — of — y — 

you ” he almost stammered. Really he did feel very 

grateful and docile: a pleasant feeling as though he had 
been stroked down gently the right way ; could almost have 
visualised himself as a dove, with very smooth feathers and 
bright eyes. 

He respected both his employers, for had they not accom- 
plished the great task of “ getting on ” ? He respected him- 
self too: loved his own nice manners. “You may depend 
on me not to take any advantage — presume on your kind- 
ness.” 

“ Very right, very proper,” said Morrison. “ Mustn’t 
allow yourself to become puffed up, young man. The — 
eh, the pomps and vanities of this wicked world, you know.” 

“ Indeed yes, sir,” said Bellamy ; bowed and withdrew. 

“ Nice, God-fearing young fellow that,” remarked old 
Morrison. 

“ Umph ! ” Higgins drew down his long close-shaven 
upper lip : and bent closer over the books which he was ex- 
amining. 

“ Quite the old stamp,” added the other man. 

Still Higgins said nothing. “ King Morrison ” was very 
old: he forgot things that had happened less than twenty 
years ago: forgot the daring, flashing young man, with his 
glib French, who had defied them all as an acknowledged 
representative of the warehouse workers in that ill-omened 
strike. 


CHAPTER XIV 


R OSE, having done the daring thing and received a 
scolding from her father — leaving him with a 
guilty feeling that he, and not his daughter, was in 
the wrong, and that she must be made up to, conciliated 
somehow or other — was now in a panic lest Walter Bel- 
lamy should attend her birthday party minus the wedding 
garment of white flannels ; that he might even disgrace her 
by his Sunday suit. For her infinitesimal mind could not 
face the idea of what she regarded as “ the wrong thing.” 

In a mood of romance she might fancy herself in love 
with the young man, in a moment of exhilaration elope 
with him: but that any one should remark on any flaw in 
dress or gentility was a thought which she could not tolerate. 

However Walter appeared, immaculate in his white flan- 
nel trousers, light grey jacket, grey silk socks — one of the 
latest achievements at Morrison’s — and a hat with purple 
ribband; thus fulfilling all requirements of the most select 
Edge society. 

He was a member of the St. Luke’s Tennis Club and 
played well. The girls pronounced him a “ darling ” : every 
one was asking who he was. 

“ Oh, half French — his mother’s a widow, very retir- 
ing ” Was it possible that Miss Higgins guessed at 

the insinuating attractions of the back kitchen ? “ Emigres 
I believe ” — she had no idea what the word meant — “ no- 
ble French family. Oh yes, quite a nice boy — working at 
4 Morrison’s ’ ; my father’s very fond of him.” 

It was a charming party ; the only shadow upon it being 
caused by the fact that Higgins showed his “ fondness ” for 
his daughter’s new friend by scowling, greeting and dis- 
missing Walter with a curt business-like nod. 

But Rose made up for it and their hands lingered at part- 
ing. 

“You must come again — we must get up some fours. 
83 


84 BELLAMY 

Only I’d be frightened of you ; you play so well, Mr. Bel- 
lamy.” 

“ We must play together.” Walter’s voice was tender, 
he might almost have been suggesting that they should go 
through life together. 

“ There’s my brother,” hesitated Rose; “and my friend 
Miss Kelly.” 

“ Capital, only you must send me a little note to ask me. 
I could not come without. Then there will be the double 
pleasure of seeing you and receiving your note. I shall be- 
gin to think my luck’s changing,” added Walter gaily. 

“ What, have you had bad luck ? ” Rose was all agog 
for picturesque woes, as emphasising her role of an angel 
from heaven. 

“ Bad luck ! — I wouldn’t like to cloud your birthday by 
any hint of the half of what I’ve been through,” answered 
the young man with a bitter sigh : then laughed. “ But I’m 
still alive, you see — and here. So it’s no good crying over 
past troubles — follies and worse,” he added softly. 

It was difficult to say how Walter Bellamy had come to 
realise that nothing appeals to the average young woman 
like a hint of dissipation, but it seemed to be one of those 
many things which he knew without being told. 

He went to the Club more than once after this and 
played tennis with Rose, her brother and friend. At first 
young Higgins was scornful, apostrophising Walter as “ a 
cad.” But gradually his superior play won him to a half- 
jealous admiration, then to an almost slavish worship, so 
that Walter Bellamy — with his fine physique, his self-con- 
fidence and mature knowledge of the world — became a 
perfect little god in the eyes of the narrow-chested, dissi- 
pated youth, with his piteous self-assertion. 

Even Rose gained something in his estimation. The way 
in which Higgins treated his children left no room for fra- 
ternal affection; but Bertie began to think there might be 
something in this spoilt sister of his, if she could please any 
one so fastidious as Walter Bellamy. And when the cold 
weather put an end to tennis he carried scented notes from 
the girl to Walter at his work: arranged many a secret 
meeting, and maintained a rigid silence on the subject, even 
against his mother’s questionings. 


BELLAMY 


85 

At this time Walter saw a good deal of Bertie Higgins, 
for the young fellow’s adoration for himself kept him more 
punctual to business than he had ever before shown him- 
self. He grew more upright in figure with emulating Wal- 
ter at the gymnasium; more self-confident, less self-as- 
sertive. For the first time since his childhood Higgins be- 
gan to be proud of his son, though it would have galled him 
had he known to whom the improvement was due. 

“ It is by what you do and don’t say, that you impress the 
best sort of people,” was one of Bellamy’s favourite dic- 
tums. And Bertie endeavoured to imitate him, even to the 
famous stare ; till his father pounced upon him with the in- 
junction not to “ stand there gorming like a stuck pig.” 

With Rose the stare was exceedingly effective ; she talked 
so much herself that she could not understand silence, it 
puzzled her, made her feel uncomfortable, and strangely in 
the wrong. 

She was passionately egotistical ; would rail or cringe, 
lower herself by the most palpable ruses in her lust for 
praise, load Walter with caresses and endearments; and 
then, the next moment, embark on a wearisome stream of 
recriminations. 

Perhaps she would never again be so nearly in love; for 
Walter Bellamy piqued her by his refusal to render homage 
to any of her tests of the devout lover, either by passion or 
jealousy; though his coldness was the source of many a 
scene. 

“ Go away ; I never want to see you again. I hate you — 
hate you : heartless, cruel ! ” This was the termination to 
most of their stolen meetings. 

But still it was always Rose who — having run through 
all the stages of self-pity, even to the extent of picturing 
Walter as weeping broken-hearted at her grave — would 
send round a little note expressing her repentance, signing 
herself “ your broken-hearted Rose-bud.” 

And yet, it was not love, so much as a craving for excite- 
ment: a greedy desire to get at Bellamy; to pull him to 
pieces as a botanist does a flower, to possess all his thoughts 
and feelings, his past and present, to leave him nothing of 
his own. 

If he had once made himself plain to her the spell would 


86 


BELLAMY 


have been broken, but he knew better than to do that. Still 
at times he was tender : picturesquely sentimental and dem- 
onstrative enough — though careful to keep his passion 
within bounds. And there indeed lay the danger ; for Rose 
Higgins appealed to nothing if not to the senses; and, 
though she was too great a coward to give all for love, per- 
sistently endeavoured to induce Bellamy to lose his head, 
that she might attain to the triumph of repulsing him. 

But he was wary and never committed himself. A bet- 
ter man would have fallen, but Walter Bellamy had other 
and safer outlets for his senses; for by now he travelled 
largely for Morrison’s, and had twice been chosen — on 
account of his French — for some delicate business negotia- 
tions in Paris. Besides this, he had come to the conclusion 
that it really would be a fine thing to marry James Higgins’ 
daughter — the very thought of it touched his sense of hu- 
mour — and knew that his strength lay in holding back, till 
the girl became obsessed by the very thought of him; and 
he could play upon her feelings, her vanities, her desires as 
easily as he could finger the holes of a penny whistle. 


CHAPTER XV 


I T was about this time that Walter Bellamy made an at- 
tempt, which later on — as he grew a little older and 
learnt to weigh and measure his own capacity to a 
nicety — he would never have embarked upon: he tried to 
run two affairs at one and the same time, a feat impossible 
to any one who concentrated on a single idea as completely 
as he did. 

This double enterprise was what he always thought of as 
“ the silk jacket splash,” and “ the flutter with little Rose 
Higgins.” 

The affair of the silk jackets had gathered to an actual 
head in the early autumn — almost at the same time as his 
courtship of Higgins’ daughter began to take a definite form 
— but it was during his first flying visit to Paris that he first 
heard of them — though at that time they were only to be 
actually found in Germany — and had at once wired home 
asking for leave to continue his journey and reconnoitre. 

Morrison’s refusal to this request made Bellamy very 
angry at the time. But it did not put the idea of starting 
the new industry in England out of his head ; indeed it only 
seemed to drive it deeper ; so deep that he could not let the 
matter rest. For though they turned out woollen coats and 
jackets by the score in Edge, he did not approve of them; 
to his mind they were clumsy, ugly things. 

A silk coat now — sleek and shining with all its delicate 
lights and shades following every line of a pretty figure — 
was a different thing altogether. 

He lived with and by silk at this time : thought in deniers. 
He could not let the subject drop. It seemed an affair 
of the utmost moment — that Morrison’s of Edge should be 
the first firm in England to produce such a thing. 

At the time of his second visit to France they were making 
them in a small, specially constructed factory just outside 
Paris. Of real silk, costing seven or eight guineas each. 

8 7 


88 


BELLAMY 


Why not try artificial ? The same machine would do. 

He found out everything there was to be found out about 
them. It was a serious and engrossing affair, running all 
through that winter like a deep-voiced chant, with his court- 
ship as a tinkling accompaniment. 

At last he got round old Morrison, and Higgins was over- 
ruled. 

Four Germans were brought to Edge, each with his own 
machine which he alone could work or set up. The ma- 
chines cost a matter of eighty pounds each ; then there were 
the heavy expenses of transit, and the wages of the men 
who could do nothing at all beyond their own job. 

It was a great responsibility ; but Walter Bellamy was 
borne upwards upon such a thing as upon air, his whole 
being sang with the joy of it, the thrilling uncertainty. 

Then — that very week — one of the Germans had spoken 
of meeting a friend in the town, a man from his own dis- 
trict where the machines were made. 

On further enquiry and investigation — during which 
numerous half-crowns changed hands — Bellamy discovered 
that the “ friend ” had come over with two others, in charge 
of as many machines exactly similar to those at Morrison’s, 
which were even then actually in the course of being set up 
at “ Clutton’s.” 

True, Morrison’s had got the start. Still the matter was 
a serious one. 

Walter Bellamy was obliged to interview Mr. Morrison 
and Higgins and lay the case before them, though he was 
exasperated at the delay. 

He had known in a moment what to do — or rather what 
it was possible to do — and could have killed the two elder 
men as they sat in solemn conclave, going back and back 
over the same ground. Chewing the cud of the past which 
had nothing whatever to do with the present. 

In the end what it all came to was merely this : 

Old Peter Morrison affirmed that he always had led, and 
therefore always would lead, the English market in the 
silk world; while Higgins maintained that he always had 
been, and always would be, against investing good money in 
such fashion fal-daddles as knitted silk coats. 


BELLAMY 89 

Walter wasted a day over them. Then wrote round to 
all the travellers on his own responsibility. 

Whatever else they left they must push that particular 
line. He mapped out a careful time-table for each. Be- 
tween them they must interview every possible buyer that 
very week, and get their orders booked. Meanwhile he kept 
his Germans hard at work, sending out every coat, directly it 
was finished, to serve as a sample. 

His imagination played with the idea of dynamiting Clut- 
ton’s mill : drugging the workmen. In sober truth it might 
be possible to bribe them. 

In the whole of England there were, so far, only two 
mills, which had the machinery for making that special 
thing: Morrison’s and that one other. 

What fools they had been “ up Morrison’s ” ! What 
penny-wise and pound-foolish idiots, not to buy up the Eng- 
lish monopoly, pay anything for it, as he had begged and 
prayed them to. 

Those knitted silk coats were going to be all the rage; 
Walter Bellamy was perfectly certain on that point, for he 
had a priceless knack of putting himself in another person’s 
place, and knew just how a woman would feel in those 
sleek silken garments : how they would blend with the some- 
what feline pose of the day. 

As yet there were none in the open market. Only a 
month earlier the first marvellously intricate machine — 
with its hundreds of fine steel tentacles, sensitive as human 
nerves, curving inward, trembling like the fronds of a sea- 
anemone, had been set going ; sloping and shaping and bor- 
dering, in a wonderful series of fine stitches, like a coat of 
mail. 

The first machine was ready between six and seven one 
evening. The man who worked it was an enthusiast and 
loved the thing: — 

“ Talk of a woman,” he said ; “ what is a woman to that ? 
— A lump ! ” 

All the machines at Morrison’s were worked during the 
day by two big steam-engines, but at night electricity was 
used. The man would not go back to his lodgings, even 
for supper. Bellamy brought him some from his own 




go 


BELLAMY 


home, helped him connect his machine with the electric 
plant; and sat up all night watching it, fascinated by its 
cleverness. 

The other Germans were not there : each man was inter- 
ested in his own machine only, and slept with certain indis- 
pensable pieces of it under his pillow. But the ordinary 
workers, on the night shift in other parts of the mill, came 
up to look at this new marvel. There was no fear of them 
stealing the idea, it had taken the German six months to 
master its ways. 

“ It is more than human,” he said, “ it is wonderful as 
the stars in heaven.” There was never any man in love 
as that stolid German mechanic was in love with that ma- 
chine of his. 

Between five and six, in the chill blank which comes be- 
fore dawn, Bellamy slipped out of the mill and made his 
way to Jane Irwin’s house. 

The wind was racing up the streets, not boisterously, but 
low and quiet, like a dog that bites without barking. There 
was a damp smell in the air ; the street lamps were flickering 
hazily, and lights were just beginning to show through the 
drawn blinds of the boxed-up houses. 

It was all depressing enough, for the hills — which beck- 
oned to the country, to the outer, wider world — were still 
invisible*. Here was a place where people slept because 
they were too wearied to work longer, waking to more work 
and more weariness. 

But nothing could have depressed Walter Bellamy; his 
blood ran warm with excitement. For close against his 
heart, buttoned safely under his coat, swathed in tissue- 
paper, lay a tiny parcel, not much bigger than his hand — 
the first silk coat. 

He was going to show it to Jane. Jane was his first 
thought. He did not even remember Rose Higgins. 

But then Rose would simply have regarded it as some- 
thing which might be bought in a shop ; delightful because 
it was new and expensive, and no other girl as yet had 
it. 

Jane would realise all the brain wonders that had gone to 
its making. 

The kitchen fire was lighted, The place was tidy and 


BELLAMY 


91 


quiet ; for Irwin was waiting for more warps and could not 
get to work, so was still in bed, while the children were 
asleep. 

Jane had her hat on; she was cutting bread and butter — 
some to cover with a cloth and leave ready for the children, 
so that she could lay her hand on it at once when she came 
home, some to take with her, to eat on the way back. 

Three pairs of small much-worn boots stood, shining and 
clean, before the fire, showing that Jane had already been 
about for some time; while she herself stood by the table 
drinking her tea between the slices. 

“ Jane ! Jane ! ” Walter slipped in and stood with his 
back to the fire : laughing : glowing : hugging himself round 
over the priceless parcel. “Jane! Jane! guess what I’ve 
got.” 

Suddenly he leant forward and, with one arm still across 
his breast, tweaked the pins out of the girl’s hat and 
snatched it from her head. 

He wanted to see her shining hair in the firelight ; besides 
it was necessary for the full effect of what he was going 
to do. 

He was feeling a little light-headed with excitement and 
hunger — for he had touched nothing since supper at eight 
the night before. Then the little kitchen was so warm and 
home-like : the hour so odd. Five past six : the table might 
have been set for afternoon tea. 

Indeed time and place seemed to have vanished : this snug 
kitchen was home — because he and Jane were alone in it 
— • while the time was at that inevitable hour in which Jane 
ought to be, must be, kissed. 

She seemed to take it very calmly, though she flushed 
and trembled. “ You an’ your goin’s on, Walter Bellamy ! 
Thee ought ter be ashamed o’ thee sen, a great lad loike 
thee ! ” This was her cunning way of pretending that he 
was not quite grown up, therefore not to be taken seriously. 
“ At this toime o’ mornin’ too.” 

“ With the whole day to go on kissing in,” he retorted, 
laughing. 

“ Get off with thee.” She gave him a push that was al- 
most a caress : — “ The buzzer ’ull be goin’ in a minute, an’ 
I’m not half through yet.” 


Qfl 


BELLAMY 


“ Cold-hearted wretch — and you don’t even offer me 
any tea.” 

“ Get a fresh cup off the shelf then, thee grat limb.” 

“ No, I’ll drink out of yours ; it’s sweeter, you bitter-sweet 
Jane.” 

With one hand he filled up the cup and drank of it. The 
other hand was still across his precious parcel, for only half 
his thoughts were with the girl. 

“A butty?” she suggested. 

“ No, no. I don’t want to grease my hands. You’ve 
finished now, Jane, wash yours at the tap.” 

“ Whatever for? ’’ 

“Do — do, just to please me — Flower-face.” 

“ Such goin’s on, but they need be washed anyway ; you 
or no you.” She went to the tap and rinsed them ; always 
glad of an excuse to give in to Walter Bellamy. 

Directly she had finished, and her hands were dried, he 
flung her round by her shoulders facing him. 

“Even now you don’t know what I’ve come for. Shut 
your eyes; quite tight, honest Injun. Are they shut?” 

“ Of course it’s not Oi as cheats.” 

“ Now leave your arms slack so I can fit something on to 
you,” commanded Walter, engrossed by the affair of the 
moment, disregarding the snub. 

Jane obeyed, and shaking out the coat from the folds of 
tissue-paper he slipped it on to her; pulled her firm little 
hands — which needed such care to keep them smooth and 
supple for the silk work — down through the shining 
sleeves : settled the collar at the back of the neck : smoothed 
in the waist and fastened the buttons across her deep breast. 

“ Now look ! ” he cried, his voice high with excitement. 

Jane looked and admired; turned herself round, ran her 
hand over her sleek little figure ; followed the lines and the 
spring of the coat with her fingers; noticed the way it 
curved in and out with no visible gusset or gore, and was 
unstinting in her praise. 

“ You’ve done it — really done it 1 The first silk coat in 
Edge ! — My, how it hangs and shines ! Is it but just fin- 
ished — this very day ? ” 

“Yes, we’ve been at it all the night. See, Jane, not a 
seam in it.” 


BELLAMY 


93 

“ It’s lovely — fair lovely ” chanted the girl. Then 

shook her head at Walter. “ But it’s the machine an’ that 
there German as done it — no need for yer ter put on yer 
yat with a shoe ’orn, Walter Bellamy.” 

“ But I brought them to the town. The idea was mine 
— I took all the risk ! Jane, it’s fine ; it’s just right on you ; 
how it clings and yet falls loose.’’ 

He turned her slowly round; and stroked and patted the 
coat, scarcely conscious of the girl within it. Though in 
an absorbed sort of way he realised how its clear blue went 
with her fair hair, had taken off her hat on purpose to get 
the full effect. 

The first buzzer went. There was only five minutes for 
her to get to the mill and she slipped out of the coat in a 
hurry; put on her own — that inevitable greenish fawn 
waterproof which all the mill girls wore — and pinned on 
her hat. Then hesitated by the side of Walter, who had 
cleared a space on the table and, with an absorbed air, was 
once more swathing the silken thing in its layers of tissue- 
paper. 

“ It wer nice o’ yer ter bring ’un ter show ter me 

furst ” she drew herself up sharply ; “ dear love,” the 

term of endearment so common to the Edge women had been 
on the tip of her tongue. To her mind Walter was such a 
child. 

But still she checked herself; and then — still with that 
air of treating him as a child, already a little spoiled by too 
much praise — added : — “ It’s a pity it’s not real silk.” 

“ There’s no one would ever know the difference.” 

Jane sniffed as she folded her own butties into a clean 
handkerchief. 

“ Well, only them as is in the know, not ladies,” amended 
Walter. 

“ Oh, ladies!” Jane sniffed again, and made for the 
door. “ Better get along yome to yer mither, Walter Bel- 
lamy, or she’ll think yer lost — though I’ve told her, toime 
upon toime, as * naught never comes ter harm.’ ” 

That was Jane all over. The first occasion on which Wal- 
ter had tasted sherry and bitters, in the bar parlour of a 
commercial travellers’ hotel, he had thought of her. 


CHAPTER XVI 


S O much for the affair of the silk jackets. As to the 
other, and more personal affair, it had simmered on 
through the late autumn and winter, till, early in 
March, Walter Bellamy — now promoted to the regular po- 
sition of traveller — paid his third visit to France. 

Rose did all that she could to prevent him going. The 
last time he had come back distraught and apparently with 
scarcely a thought for her; even when they were together 
he seemed to forget her presence, to be engrossed with other 
things; and true to her class and kind she could get at no 
reason beyond a rival. 

Coaxing, scolding and tears were all brought to bear. She 
forgot her looks and cried till her face was swollen and dis- 
torted with tears; raged and sulked, dismissed Walter and 
called him to her again. Forgave him ; harked back to the 
old grievance and again dismissed him. 

But at last there came a time when he did not return 
when he was called. Rose sent him several notes, gradu- 
ating from reproach to self-reproach, but they remained 
unanswered: indeed unread, for the young man was en- 
grossed in a new idea which loomed larger on his horizon 
than any love affair. 

Bertie was prevailed upon to intercede. But his adora- 
tion was only deepened by Walter’s reply to his pleading 
in Rose’s name. “ If I marry I want a wife who is a 
woman and not a spoilt child,” he announced with dignity. 
“ I cannot allow either your sister, or any one else to come 
between me and my duty.” 

“ You’re an ass if you let Bellamy go,” Bertie declared 
to his sister; “by Jove, it beats me to know what a fellow 
like that sees in you.” 

As a last resort Rose pleaded illness — and indeed she 
was ill: sick with uncertainty and hurt vanity, terrified 
that she had, at last, gone too far and lost him altogether. 

94 


BELLAMY 


95 

“ I might perhaps be able to crawl down to the bottom of 
the garden this evening to see you once more,” she wrote 
at the end of this letter : uncertain as to whether she meant 
before he left or before her own demise. 

In answer to this she received a postcard from Paris : — 
“Received your letter just before I started. Regret to 
hear of your indisposition. Will certainly bring you the 
bon-bons you ask for from Paris : Yours faithfully, W. B. 
Bellamy.” 

It was the only written word that she ever received from 
him — even then he had not committed himself to a letter, 
had invented a completely fabulous commission. 

But Rose was subdued. Walter was a whole fortnight 
away : and then so busied over his work, so tied by frequent 
consultations with his superiors that she hardly ever saw 
him. When she did she was yielding and docile, and for 
the first time practical. 

Walter showed himself willing to forgive — always, so 
to speak, a step above her. They discussed the question of 
their marriage sedately enough. He determined that it had 
better be soon ; if these clandestine meetings went on they 
would be sure to be discovered, and the whole thing put an 
end to. 

It was useless to ask for James Higgins’ consent. Rose 
was confident that once they were married her father would 
come round ; that Walter would be made a partner in the 
firm — here his ambition ran with hers — and that she 
would thus combine a romantic union and prosperous fu- 
ture. Besides, she wanted an elopement ; it would do away 
with the necessity of inviting Mrs. Bellamy to the wedding, 
besides none of her friends had ever eloped: all this was 
sufficient reason; the trousseau would have to come later, 
and could easily include a white satin. 

The last details of the scheme were settled one Sunday in 
March — when the setting sun flamed red on the top of the 
hills — in a shaded lane, made for lovers, which runs down 
one side of the old churchyard. 

It was not a very safe place ; but they were getting to the 
end of their probation, and in these meetings Walter Bel- 
lamy derived half his pleasure from the risks incurred: al- 
ways gleefully alert to catch Higgins’ bitter scowl upon him ; 


BELLAMY 


96 

though in his heart of hearts he knew that it would spoil 
everything if they were discovered at this juncture. 

On this particular day Rose was all in brown velvet and 
furs, and wearing a little close brown turban edged with 
fur drawn down over her head, softening the effect of her 
rather wide cheek-bones, covering all but the tips of her 
ears; and showing no more of her dark hair than a few 
curls, which blew across her forehead. 

The wind was cold: it whipped her face into a glow of 
colour, while her eyes were bright and softer than usual, 
for she was getting all her own way and was happy. 

Her hands were tucked into a large pillow-shaped muff, 
which she held up against her breast for the sake of 
warmth; and Walter’s were there too, one arm round her 
neck and over her shoulder. 

He could feel her heart beat through the thickness of fur ; 
her fully moulded bosom was warm and soft, she seemed 
altogether woman ; desirable for other reasons than the mere 
fact of being Higgins’ daughter. 

“ You really are a dear,” he declared, rather patronis- 
ingly, and kissed the strip of white neck between cap and 
collar, at the back of her ear ; “ the sweetest — sweetest 
Rose-bud.” 

For a moment or so the girl leant back against him in 
silence, her eyes closed. Then came the inevitable ques- 
tion : — “ You really do love me, really truly ? ” 

“ You know I do,” Walter whispered, his cheek against 
hers glowing with health — for though Rose Higgins could 
boast no great intellectual or spiritual attainments, there was 
no question of her physical soundness, and this in itself was 
an attraction: there is nothing a selfish man dislikes and 
dreads more than the thought of a delicate wife. “ Should 
I want you as I do, if I didn’t love you ? ” 

“ Do you want me? ” 

“ Yes, I do — Rose, I want you, I want you.” 

Their marriage was so near that for a moment or so he 
let himself go: holding her closer than he had ever done, 
his lips to hers. 

She was silly and shallow ; but once they were married 
there would always be the physical contact to depend on, 
apart from all else that he would gain by the union. Dur- 


BELLAMY 


97 


ing the last few weeks his ambition had been quickened to 
a fever; and now desire was added to it. He felt that he 
could scarcely wait for the six days which must still elapse 
before the arrangements for their marriage were completed. 

Then and there — for fear that he should be sent away on 
any special errand during that week — they settled every 
detail. 

There was a little passage which led down from Little 
France on to the Wantage road. They were to meet there 
at half-past three on the afternoon of the next Saturday. 

Among Bellamy’s many friends was a young man of the 
name of Thompson, who possessed a small motor-car, which 
he never used during the week-ends. Walter would bor- 
row this : they would drive to Wantage and leave the car 
there for the owner to fetch on the Monday, when his busi- 
ness took him to that town. 

In Wantage they could be married: a fortnight ago Wal- 
ter had established a nominal residence there. After this 
they would go by train to Buxton for one night — Rose 
thrilled at the thought — up to London the next day ; and 
then over to Paris — that wonderful wicked Paris ! 

Every detail of the scheme was repeated over and over 
again ere they parted. Rose calling her lover back more 
than once — though this time in love and not in anger — 
for a last embrace. 

But by now the last gleam of sunshine was gone ; her face 
looked a little pinched, her nose was red — but still the fact 
of her fortune loomed large in Bellamy’s mind, as large as 
anything can loom in the mind of any man who has passed 
his tea-time by an hour or more. 


CHAPTER XVII 


S ATURDAY came flying round. Seldom indeed had 
any week passed so quickly. Curiously enough, now 
that everything was settled, there seemed no earthly 
reason to Walter Bellamy why he should elope. 

Yet only a week ago it had been the height of his ambi- 
tion to marry Rose : or rather the marriage seemed to prom- 
ise a speedy elevation to that height. 

But gradually all this had become overshadowed by the 
thought of the girl herself: her silliness, her greed; her 
overwhelming femininity, her stupid bursts of passion and 
jealousy. 

After all, what would his position as Higgins’ son-in-law 
amount to? Under the old man’s thumb; tied to a weari- 
some little town and a brainless wife, there seemed little 
enough to be gained by such a marriage. 

By Wednesday the reasons for desiring it had grown very 
misty. By Friday he could scarcely remember them with- 
out a great effort; though he kept totting them over in his 
mind as though he were learning a lesson. 

By Saturday dust and ashes filled his mouth : he was sick 
and ill with boredom. Still he meant to have gone through 
with it; and might have done so if the morning had proved 
anything like a spring morning ought to have done, instead 
of miserably wet and cold. 

The streets were running with water as he went to the 
mill, and everything smelt damp. It was a leaden and chill 
day, with none of those sudden squalls and bursts of sun- 
shine which exhilarate rather than depress. 

As he went home to dinner he still supposed that they 
were going to elope. But it was a nuisance for it was a wet 
day; and he was tremendously immersed in other things; 
things which had nothing to do with Rose, but a very great 
deal to do with his position as dictator to all “ Morrison’s ” 
other travellers in this affair of the silk jacket. 

98 


BELLAMY 


99 

The fact was he quite thought that he had covered the 
whole of Great Britain with a network of forerunners: 
arranged matters so that every single wholesale firm of any 
importance should be visited by one or other of his men. 

Then suddenly, only that very morning, he had remem- 
bered Matherson of Manchester. None of the travellers 
had been given any special instructions regarding Mather- 
son, and they might let him slip : the most important man in 
all the wide circle of buyers, head buyer for Barclay & Co., 
and possessed of almost unlimited power in the great firm. 

He could have kicked himself. The only possible excuse 
was that he had been run off his feet. And now there was 
this silly business of the elopement. Walter tried to tie his 
mind down to the thought of it. 

But it was all of no use. Matherson’s name, the thought 
of the orders which might have been got from him cropped 
up through everything. 

Again and again Walter wrenched his memory back to 
Rose and her affairs, which no longer seemed to be his. 

He would have to buy a ring ; and after all he had forgot- 
ten to wire for rooms in Buxton. 

Then with a flash came the memory that Matherson had 
told him he always took his half-day off early in the week, 
because he liked to have the Saturday to himself for going 
over his account in the empty warehouse. 

If only he could see him himself. He was an awkward 
man to handle, suspicious of anything new ; any one of the 
other travellers might put his back up, muddle the whole 
thing. 

Still Walter kept on reminding himself that he was to 
meet Rose at half-past three that afternoon; and that they 
were going to be married. That by the same time the next 
day she would be actually his wife. 

But it was hopeless. The picture of Matherson alone 
and completely get-at-able in that great Manchester ware- 
house ousted every other thought. 

After dinner he went into the little front garden and 
stared up at the sky: as though it could help him, or any 
one else, with its sodden drip. 

Mrs. Bellamy had stopped in the middle of clearing away 
the dishes to wash the hall and passage. She was so damp 


100 


BELLAMY 


and dreary looking, and smeared herself over the floor in 
such a fashion that it looked as though some gigantic and 
invisible Fate had got her by the slack of her waist and was 
literally washing the floor with her. 

“ Nice thing ter come down ter, washin’ floors on a Sat- 
urday afternoon/’ she remarked bitterly — and unjustly, 
for her son hated to see her doing it, was always willing to 
pay a charwoman: “a quarter ter three, an’ all: just when 
other folks goin’ off pleasurin’ ! That’s my life, that is ! ” 

Walter gave a gasp as the meaning of the words pene- 
trated his absorbed mind. Suddenly he remembered that 
there was a train — an express which left for Manchester 
at three five. He might catch it and see Matherson himself. 

The thought swept away every other memory ; and Rose 
vanished. 

Running into the house he almost jumped over his 
mother ; raced up to his room, three steps at a time ; caught 
up his bag, which he had packed that morning; seized hat 
and overcoat and gloves ; flew downstairs again and kissed 
his mother a hasty good-bye. 

“ Wer’st thou goin’?” she demanded, quite involuntarily 
smearing the kiss off her face with the back of her hand — 
though she would have felt bitterly hurt had it been omitted. 

“ To Manchester — I ” Walter flung the words be- 

hind him while the end of the sentence was lost in the slam- 
ming of the gate. 

He just caught the train with hardly a moment to spare, 
and was past Stoke before he remembered that he had 
omitted to leave any message for Thompson in regard to 
the motor. 

Though even then he never thought of Rose. 

The memory of the bespoken motor only occurred while 
he was — almost involuntarily — jotting down expenses, 
and he wondered if he would have to pay for it anyhow. 
The next moment, however, his thoughts were again en- 
grossed with Matherson; while he recited over in his own 
mind the exact words which he would use, the arguments 
in favour of a large purchase which he would put forward. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


B Y the day of the intended elopement it was fully a 
month since Bellamy had shown the first silk coat to 
Jane Irwin. He had never even thought of giving 
her one of her own; though she would not have been al- 
lowed to wear it if he had, for it was one of the most 
stringent rules in Morrison’s that none of the operatives 
should wear goods produced by the firm. But a special 
coat had been knitted for Rose, to match with her name 
and vivid colour of her cheeks; he had packed it away in 
his bag that very morning, had meant to give it her on 
her honeymoon, with the lurking thought that even that 
would be an advertisement, for people would see her wear- 
ing it and ask where it came from. 

He remembered the coat now; and as he neared Man- 
chester, reached down his bag from the rack, took it out, 
and made it up into a separate little parcel, thinking that it 
would serve as a sample for Matherson. 

At that moment he must have remembered Rose. But 
if he did it was merely as some one completely detached 
from himself : a girl for whom the coat had been originally 
intended, who must certainly be furnished with another in 
its place. Of the husband she had also lost, and of the 
blow to her pride it is certain that he never once thought, 
for at that moment his mind was engrossed by purely ma- 
terial things. 

Men are curious in this way. A woman hugs a love 
affair, though she may disdain to touch the lover with the 
tip of her little finger. 

A man, on the contrary, hugs the lover, and disdains the 
memory — or rather loses it. 

Where a woman has once loved she always feels a sort 
of tenderness and jealousy. A man is never so little in love 
as when he has outgrown passion, or desire. 

IOI 


102 


BELLAMY 


Rose had had her moments in Walter’s feelings; though 
she fell curiously between his heart and his passion. But 
now she had ceased to exist. 

The only wonder was that he should have run his love 
affair and the silk jackets so long together; but his ambition 
to make a clever, startling, altogether effective man of busi- 
ness was far greater than his ambition for the security of 
a rich wife, and the greater swept the lesser aside. 

Rose Higgins waited by the tree at the end of the passage 
which leads from Little France, where Walter had arranged 
to meet her, from a quarter-past three to six. 

At first she felt that anything might have happened ; he 
might have been kept late at the mill, something might have 
gone wrong with the motor. 

She stood tapping her foot haughtily. There was no 
medium in her way with a man: it was domineering or 
fawning — almost wanton. 

When any one approached she moved up the passage and 
then down again, to appear as if she were not waiting. 

She felt it her right that Walter should be there a little 
before the time and was huffed when it passed the half- 
hour ; walking away right to the end of the passage, so that 
it should seem as if she was the one to be late. 

When the clock on the old church struck the quarter she 
was angry. How cold and repellent she would be: as a 
matter of fact she was not sure if she would marry Walter 
at all after the way in which she was being treated. 

At four she was strained between anger and fear. By 
half-past she was so hardened by anxiety that she stood 
openly in the road and stared up and down it. 

Five o’clock struck, and half-past five. It had cleared a 
little in the mid-afternoon; but now it was raining again; 
a driving drizzle. 

Already it was growing dark. Young couples, huddled 
close together under an umbrella, came running by on their 
way home from the skating-rink, laughing and talking, or 
clinging close in silence. Lights twinkled out in the cot- 
tage windows, warm red lights which showed that people 
had given up the pretence of its being spring, cleared out 
their neatly dressed grates and started their fires again. 

Rose was wearing a dainty suit of pale grey, and a grey 


BELLAMY 


103 

motor-bonnet, with a flowing veil, the brim lined with pink 
buds. 

She had covered herself with a light silky cloak, but it 
was soon wet through and she had no umbrella : there were 
dark patches of wet upon her pale tinted gloves: her thin 
low shoes were damp, her feet icy. 

For the last half-hour she felt deadened, beaten down by 
fate. She was no longer angry, she only longed for the 
sheer physical comfort of Walter’s arm round her. She 
wanted her tea : she wanted every one to be sorry for her, 
indeed she could hardly resist laying her case before the 
passers-by. 

But now there were so few. The loneliness of the road 
terrified her, for the Edge people had gone to their tea as 
uniformly as in some countries they will go to prayer. 

Suddenly, through the blank silence, the painful straining 
of eyes and ears, came the sudden thought that Walter 
might be ill — dead. Rose almost caught at the thought: 
anything to save her vanity. 

There might have been a motor accident ; there was a hill 
and a couple of sharp turns on the way from the garage. 

Perhaps, even now, her lover was lying upon a bed of 
pain, tossing, calling upon her name. 

A genuine fount of womanliness welled up in her at the 
thought. Almost for the first time in her life Rose Higgins 
forgot herself, that curious, shallow, greedy little self — 
which yet possessed so great a power, instinctive and blind, 
of perpetuating its race; bringing into the world immortal 
souls, of which it knows nothing as to whence they come, 
whither they go, or what they are. 

Half blinded with tears, stumbling with fatigue, scarcely 
knowing what she did, the girl ran and walked, walked and 
ran — keeping as much as possible to the by-ways — till she 
reached Walter Bellamy’s house. 

As she opened the front gate the consciousness of self 
had returned, and she trembled, half with fear, half with a 
sort of pride that here at last was something really great 
come into her life; for the blinds were all down, the house 
in darkness. Without doubt Walter Bellamy was dead. 
She was almost a widow ! 

She touched the button of the electric bell which went 


BELLAMY 


104 

shrilling through the house, calling into being a feeble light 
that flickered through the glass above the entrance. 

Mrs. Bellamy had opened the back kitchen-door. If 
Rose had known her habits a little better, guessed where 
the lady habitually lurked, she would have been less fright- 
ened at the darkness which reigned in the front of the house. 

The light drew nearer. Mrs. Bellamy had lighted a can- 
dle and was coming to the front door, which she unbolted 
and opened; then peered out, keeping it still upon the 
chain. 

“Who’s there?” 

“ It’s me,” said Rose, then pulled herself together. “ I 
came to see — if — if — is anything wrong? ” 

“ Everything’s wrong — always is,” answered the mis- 
tress of the house, peering out suspiciously, through the 
crack of the door, “ but that ain’t any reason fur a’ the 
draggle tail light-o’-loves in the town ter cum pealin’ at my 
front door bell.” 

“ I’m Miss Higgins ” stammered Rose. “ I was — I 

mean my father was expecting to see your son about — about 
something, this afternoon, and he did not come.” 

“ Oh ! I beg yer pardon, I’m sure, Miss ; but the light’s 
that bad, an’ ’un alius expects the worst with strangers. 
Won’t yer step in ? ” She slipped the chain and opened the 
door wider, though still with a grudging air, holding her 
soiled apron turned back with one hand. 

“ I was just doin’ a bit o’ cleanin’ up ; the girl’s on a holi- 
day.” She was staunch to Walter and his expressed wish 
that she should keep a servant — though she would not 
give in to it. 

“No, I won’t wait, thank you — I only wanted — my 
father wanted,” murmured Rose, as she turned and began 
to move away. She was cold within and without: Mrs. 
Bellamy had been scrubbing, she had not been mourning 
Walter: Walter was well enough. With sickening cer- 
tainty the conviction came home to the girl — he had played 
her false. 

She did not want to hear — she could not bear to hear — 
what had happened; she could have put her fingers in her 
ears and screamed “ Stop ! stop ! ” as Mrs. Bellamy followed 
her down the steps, and stood at her back while she fum- 


BELLAMY 105 

bled with the latch of the gate: explaining and complain- 
ing- 

“ Yer Jeyther don’t never seem ter think as the workers 
’ave a right ter call their souls their own. Rushin’ moy 
Wally off ter Manchester on ’is business when other young 
men is at their sports. An’ then sendin’ round ter ask if 
’e’s back when ’e’s not two hours gone. Seems ter 
me ” 

But Rose had vanished. How she got home she never 
knew. The chill of disappointment and disillusion was 
swept away by a flame of anger. For a moment the 
thought crossed her mind that her father had really sent 
Walter Bellamy to Manchester; if so it was he with whom 
she was angry. 

At any rate she was angry; so angry that she did not 
mind anything, felt no shame, cared for nothing save that 
some one must be made to suffer for all that she had suf- 
fered. 

Once home she went straight to the dining-room where 
she found her mother sitting by the fireplace with her hands 
folded in resigned idleness, while James Higgins bent over 
a pile of account-books at the large table, across one end of 
which tea was still laid. 

“ Have yer had yer tea ? ” began Mrs. Higgins; but 

without answering Rose moved to the table and stood oppo- 
site her father, her two hands in their stained gloves pressed 
palm downwards upon it. 

“Look here, did you send Walter to Manchester?” she 
began furiously. 

“ Eh, what’s that? What Walter? ” 

“ Walter Bellamy — did you, did you ? Don’t you hear 
what I ask you? Can’t you give me a straight answer — 
did you? That’s all I want to know.” She snatched the 
papers from his hands as she spoke, for it drove her frantic 
to see the way he held his pen poised above them. 

Higgins pushed his spectacles up above his forehead and 
stared at the draggled girl, with her hard bright eyes, un- 
curled hair and flaming cheeks : never had his Rose looked 
less “ the lady.” 

“ What’s all this to-do ? — What f al-daddle ” he be- 

gan. 


io6 


BELLAMY 


“ Be quiet ! ” — • she gave a savage movement of impa- 
tience. “ I want to know. Did you — did you? That’s 
all — did you or did you not ? ” 

“ Did Oi what?” 

His slowness maddened the girl. In despair she swung 
towards Mrs. Higgins. “ Mother, can’t you ” she be- 

gan: then realised the futility of such an appeal, and re- 
turned to her father. 

“ Did you send Walter Bellamy to Manchester this after- 
noon ? ” She ground out the words with slow, bitter 
emphasis : tapping on the table with her fingers as she spoke. 

“ God in heaven, girl ! What should I be sending any 
one to Manchester on a Saturday afternoon for? Go and 

tidy yourself — change ” he hesitated, at a loss how to 

express himself as to his daughter’s appearance. “ Go an’ 
make yersen look loike a lady ; Oi won’t have moy 
wench ” 

“ You didn’t send him then?” Rose spoke in an oddly 
blank voice. 

Suddenly Higgins took off his glasses : his face whitened 
and hardened. 

“ What do you want to know for ? What’s that young 
sprig to you ? ” 

Rose quailed, she had never been spoken to like that be- 
fore, and for the first time in her life she was afraid of her 
father. 

“ Oh, nothing, I don’t know — I — I ” she half 

turned to go. 

“ No you don’t, you’ll not leave this ’ere room till you 
tell me.” 

“ Let be, father — I shall do as I like, I ” 

“ You’ll not do as you like ! ” Suddenly he flung to his 
feet, leant across one corner of the table and caught her 
wrist. “ Now then, tell me ; what’s that there Bellamy got 
ter do with you ? ” 

“ I won’t tell you, so there ! ” The girl tried to wrench 
herself free, but Higgins held her tight. 

“ You will ! By God, you will, or I’ll limb yer.” He 
spoke like a navvy, lifted his fist like one; and suddenly 
Rose broke into a torrent of tears. 

“ Mother, mother, don’t let him ! Make him let me go.” 


BELLAMY 


107 

She was terrified beyond words of this man, whom she 
alone had always ruled. 

“Let her be, James.” Mrs. Higgins had risen; she too 
was trembling, but not with fear. “ Don’t you dare ter lay 
a hand on the girl. Loose go, do you hear me, loose go.” 

She could have flown upon him ; she was not in the least 
frightened, for this was not a position which demanded 
ladyhood, and she was up in arms — not so much for her 
daughter, as for her own sex. 

In sheer amazement James Higgins loosened his hold, 
and twisting herself free. Rose ran from the room, crying 
— noisily, like an undisciplined child. 

For a moment her parents stood regarding each other. 
“ Now then, we’ll never get the truth out of ’er,” remarked 
Higgins sullenly. 

“ Oh yes, we will ; it’s a long day a’fore you’ll find Rose 
doin’ any o’ her own layin’ awake at night,” answered his 
wife decisively, and returned to her own place by the fire. 

For some time there was silence. Higgins was bent over 
his books, his pen in his hand ; but he did not turn the pages. 

After a while he raised his head and stared at his wife. 
“ Ain’t yer goin’ ter see what’s wrong ? ” he asked resent- 
fully ; yet not in the bullying tone he generally used to her. 
“ There’s no knowin’ what the girl will do — some mischief 
to hersen. How she looked! as if her heart were fair 
broken.” 

“ If it was she wouldn’t a’ made so much noise about it ; 
I can tell you that much, James Higgins, an’ I know,” re- 
torted the woman, bitterly. “You leave her alone; we’ll 
hear all about it soon enough.” 

She was right ; for they had not been in bed half an hour 
when Rose came knocking at the door, then entered, 
wrapped round with a long fur cloak, shivering and sob- 
bing. “ I can’t sleep ; I don’t know what to do. I could 
kill myself, I’m that shamed ! ” she gulped noisily. 

Higgins lit a candle and — ever mindful of her own com- 
fort — Rose climbed on to the bed ; and sat at the foot of 
it, facing her parents, with their eider-down pulled up above 
her cloak. 

Thus throned she recited her wrongs. One moment de- 
claiming her love for Walter Bellamy, telling them that her 


io8 


BELLAMY 


heart was broken : that she could never care for any one else 
— that she would go away and poison herself ; that nobody 
loved her. The next moment, vindictive and bitter — call- 
ing him “ a mean, common thing,” entreating her father to 
revenge her wrongs — or inarticulate with self-pity. 

They were a strange trio. The muffled girl flushed and 
coarsened with anger, her eyes swollen, her dark hair di- 
shevelled. And facing her James Higgins in the incongru- 
ous innocence of his white nightshirt — his stubborn upper 
lip drawn down, his lower one protruding, his stiff grey 
hair erect — with Mrs. Higgins at his side, pale and plucked- 
looking, her scanty tresses strained to the top of her head 
and fastened there with one pin, her weak eyes red and 
blinking. 

After a while the mother leant across the bed, reached 
for her daughter’s hand, patted and smoothed it. 

“ There, there now. There, there, don’t thee taeke on so, 
Rose, thee’ll be doin’ thysen a hurt.” It was long since she 
had used the soft familiar “ thee.” 

But the girl took no notice of the caress. Gradually it 
began to dawn upon her that her father was looking at her 
in a new, hard way. 

Now and then he prompted, with “ and then ? ” “ what 
then ? ” or hurried her on. But he was different ; and sud- 
denly scared she tried her old wheedling ways, bent for- 
ward and stretched out her hand to him. “ What should 
I have done without my dear, darling old curmudgeon to 
come back to,” she sobbed. Then broke off, staring 
stupidly; for Higgins had shaken his hand free and drawn 
back, stonily upright against the rail of the bed. 

Is that all ? ” he asked loudly. 

“Yes, yes, I’ve told you — didn’t you hear? How I 
waited and waited — went to ask if he was at home, and 
then came back; straight back to you, you darling Dad,” 
again she stretched out her hand; but Higgins took no 
notice of the action. 

“ Is that all ? that’s what I want to know,” he reiterated 
stubbornly. 

“ Haven’t I told you ? Mother — Mother, what does he 
mean ? ” 

The girl made as if to fling herself across the bed to her 


BELLAMY 


109 

mother; but Higgins put out one big hand and pushed her 
roughly back. 

“ Sit there, you damned slut. Now answer me ; do as 
you’re told for once. Is that all — do you hear, is that 
all? ” 

“ I’ve told you.” 

“ You’ve nai’ told me. You spoke o’ shame an’ wrongs, 
an’ Oi want ter know how much you mean by it. For, by 
God, if you’ve been playing the harlot — daughter or no 
daughter ” 

“ Father, father!” With a cry Rose broke loose from 
his hold and clung to her mother. 

But Mrs. Higgins was firm too; she held her close and 
patted her, but she spoke decisively, her voice sharp with 
anxiety. “ Speak up, my girl. You’ve got ter answer yer 
feyther, the sooner the better ! ” 

“ I don’t know what to say — I don’t know what he 
means.” 

“ Then I’ll tell you what I mean ! ” shouted Higgins. 
“ Has that there Bellamy done as he oughtn’t by yer — are 
yer a maid or are yer not ? There — is that flat enough fur 

yer ? God damn yer! For if yer’ve shamed me out 

yer go. Now answer me, an’ no lies, mind yer.” 

“ Of course not, of course not ! We were goin’ to run 
away and get married.” 

“ There was kissin’ an’ cuddlin’ enough a’fore it came ter 
that, I be bound ; was there anything else ? ” 

“ No, no.” 

“You’ll give me yer Bible oath o’ that?” 

“ I swear it — of course I swear ; do you think I'd let 
him — lower myself ? ” Rose was aflame with virtuous in- 
dignation ; quite forgetful of the many times when she had 
lured Walter on, piqued and irritated by his cool self- 
control. 

“ You swear it.” 

“ I swear ! ” 

“ Well, then, go back to your bed like a decent ’ooman, 
an’ let’s hear no more o’ it. Though mind this, you’ve 
taught me a lesson. I’d thought my daughter ’ud ’a had 
more sense of her position, than ter go taekin’ up with any 
town pup.” 


no BELLAMY 

Rose slipped off the bed, and stood sullenly gathering her 
cloak around her. 

“ He’ll have to be sent away. He’s behaved shamefully. 
I’d not stay in the same place with him ! ” she declared. 
“ Most fathers would horsewhip a fellow as behaved so to 
his daughter.” 

“ Most fathers ’ud keep their mouths shut upon it, if they 
had any sense, as I mean to do. An’ mind yer, yer’ll keep 
yers shut too, till Oi can speed yer out o’ town. Now get 
off ter bed. Get out o’ my room, do yer ’ear ; Oi’m sick an’ 
tired o’ the sight o’ yer.” 

Rose sneaked away ; and blowing out the candle, Higgins 
turned round on his side, with his back to his spouse. 
“ Yer’ve spoilt those childern o’ yourn, that’s what yer’ve 
done, spoilt ’em past all bearin’ ; an’ now look what it’s cum’ 
to — a common fellow like that ! ” He complained bitterly. 


CHAPTER XIX 


M ATHERSON was in his office that afternoon, as 
Bellamy had anticipated. 

But for some time he refused to attend to the 
repeated rings and knocks, which he heard at the outer 
door. He was deep in piles of papers; he had sacrificed 
the general Saturday’s holiday for the sake of quiet and 
was ill-pleased at the disturbance, hoping against hope that 
the intruder, whoever he was, would give it up in despair 
and go away. 

“ Let them ring ! Let them knock ! ” he muttered furi- 
ously and bent again over his work: a short square-built 
man, with bristly grey hair and beard and small, bright 
dark eyes, who irresistibly reminded one of a hedgehog — 
“ Damn them ! Let them knock !”...“ The Institute of 
Silk Workers and Dyers beg to inform Messrs. Barclay and 

Sons What’s this? Oh, damn it, let them knock! 

Go to hell with them — whoever they are ! ” 

With a savage movement he dropped his pen ; thrust his 
fingers in his ears, and endeavoured to concentrate all his 
faculties on the paper before him. 

But it was no good. The persistent sound beat through 
everything; and after another five minutes of wasted effort 
he flung to his feet; passed through the outer office and 
vestibule to the front door and threw it open; wide as if in 
ironical welcoming of a host. 

“ Well ? ” Most people would have been utterly quenched 
by the monosyllable, the fierce stare of enquiry. Matherson 
knew Bellamy perfectly, but there was not a trace of recog- 
nition in his look. 

Walter was too wise to approach him in any light or airy 
manner. Without attempting to advance he stood a little 
below him on the steps and looked up gravely ; realising the 
almost religious force of an upward glance. “ I’m sorry 
to disturb you, Mr. Matherson.” 


112 


BELLAMY 


“ Disturb ! Oh, not at all ! ” echoed Matherson bitterly. 

“ But it’s an important matter.’' 

“ Oh ! ” 

“ May I come inside? ” 

“ I’m very busy ; can’t you write — or tell me what it is 
now?” — “And be gone,” Matherson’s tone seemed to add. 

“ It will take a little time. I think I’d better come in. I 
ran up from Edge — at considerable personal inconven- 
ience — for the express purpose of laying this matter be- 
fore you.” 

“ Oh, come in then,” groaned the other man ; and turning 
ungraciously enough led the way to his office. 

It seemed an inauspicious opening; but once Walter got in 
he knew he had him. 

He unrolled his little parcel and displayed the wonderful 
seamless coat: dilated upon its beauties, wishing that Jane 
was there to display it to advantage, upon her trim little 
figure : dwelt upon the fact that “ Morrison’s ” was the only 
firm in England which could produce such a thing — drew 
forth the very soul of woman and displayed it, enraptured 
with the silken trifle ; refusing everything else, devoured by 
envy languishing near to death if she could not get it. 

The cleverest men — though perhaps not the most scrupu- 
lous — have something of the woman in their composition ; 
this was the case with Walter Bellamy, and to this feminine 
streak he owed his fine taste, his quickness, his intuition, 
and much of his histrionic power. 

He knew exactly how a woman would feel in one of those 
silk coats — snuggling his inner consciousness into them. 
In addition to this he was able to impress Matherson with 
his convictions: so fully that half an hour after his grudg- 
ing admittance, he found himself speeded on his way with 
an order for five hundred; while Matherson stood upon 
the steps beaming, forgetful of the pile of work still waiting 
upon his office table. But even this was not all. For 
half-way down the deserted street Walter heard himself 
hailed ; and turning saw the buyer running down the steps 
and beckoning. 

“ Look here,” he said rather breathlessly, as the other 
man retraced his steps and they met again : — “ Are you 
alone; no wife or anything? ” 


BELLAMY 


113 

The question was jocular, but it gave Walter Bellamy an 
ugly jar, an odd feeling of being suddenly and unpleasantly 
reminded of something : though it was a mere sensation, too 
vague for definite thought. 

“ Oh yes, Fm alone.” He answered slowly ; and the next 
moment was diverted by Matherson’s suggestion — why 
shouldn’t they dine together, early, and then do a theatre? 
“ Manchester’s a dreary sort of place to be alone in, unless 
you know somebody,” he added genially; having come to 
the conclusion that this young Bellamy was a pleasant fel- 
low, a real good business man; and that it was as well to 
keep in with the representatives of the only firm in England 
able to supply Barclay and Son with this newest fad of 
fashion. 

They had an excellent dinner — at Matherson’s expense 
— followed by a bright musical comedy : plenty of pretty 
girls, plenty of catchy tunes. 

Walter was whistling one of them as he undressed in his 
stuffy, drab-tinted bedroom at the Waverly Hotel. 

Stripping, he threw all his clothes on a chair and rubbed 
himself over with a rough towel ; sawing it to and fro across 
his back in time to the words : 

“ She’s a dainty, dainty — dainty, 

Little bit of fluff — fluff, fluff, 

All in quaker grey, and prim! 

Oh prim, enough — nough — nough! 

But the twinkle 
In her eye, 

Gives the lie 

To her sober little ways. 

And it isn’t what she says — 

What she says, what she says, 

But the way she looks 
That hooks — that hooks ” 

By this time Walter was in a glow. Lifting one leg, he 
bent it sharply at the knee and felt the muscle swell up his 
smooth thigh, flecked his arm and ran his fingers along it. 

How tremendously fit he felt, and what a deal this had 
been with Matherson! 

Life was really a gorgeous game, as long as there was 
any difficulty to be overcome. 

With a pleasant little shiver and yawn of healthy fatigue 


114 


BELLAMY 


— which meant nothing more than a desire for sleep — he 
turned towards the bed, and stretched out his hands for his 
pyjamas which the chamber-maid had put ready for him. 

At that moment, and then only, did the sudden memory 
of Rose, as she really was — or should have been — of 
what he had done and what he had left undone — return to 
him. And ceasing to hum he gave a long-drawn whistle. 

He had bought those pyjamas — silk, delicately striped in 
two shades of heliotrope — from a wholesale firm in Bir- 
mingham less than a month before. At that time the idea of 
marriage — or rather any definite date for marriage had 
been vague; but they were too cheap and good to be re- 
sisted and he had purchased them to keep ready as part of 
his wedding-outfit. 

Since then his marriage with Rose had been very definitely 
settled. And this — this was his wedding-night ! 

It was the sight of the pyjamas that brought it back to 
him. 

He slipped into them and sat on the edge of the bed 
ruminating. What would happen? It was a mercy he had 
got that order from Matherson to conciliate the firm with 
if there was a row. But would there be a row ? 

Would not Rose have too much pride to give him away. 
And even if she did — and she was silly enough for any- 
thing — would not Higgins insist on its going no further; 
conscious of the humiliating position in which his daughter 
had been placed, and the fine tale Walter could make of it 
if he liked. 

But one thing was certain. If Higgins knew he would 
have his knife into him one way or another ; Walter realised 
this with a wry grin. 

As for Rose, he already knew what Rose’s tempers were 
like, and he wondered what scenes were being enacted at 
Edge that night; more than half wishing that he could be 
there to see. 

Anyhow, whatever happened, he was devoutly thankful 
for one thing; and that was his freedom. 

It was nearly one o’clock when he got into bed: in ten 
minutes he was asleep, and — lulled by the Sabbath calm — 
did not even open his eyes till the church bells started to 
ring next morning. 


CHAPTER XX 


T HE first time Walter Bellamy met Higgins, after his 
return from Manchester, he realised that the elder 
man knew what had happened ; also that he intended 
to say nothing, but would bide his time, awaiting the first 
chance to make him suffer for what he had done. 

He still saw something of Bertie; but there was a wall 
between the two. And though the young fellow acclaimed 
every noble sentiment which Walter expressed — half 
fiercely as though trying to convince himself that his friend 
could do no wrong — the sense of restraint was there and 
they drifted more and more apart. 

It was evident that Bertie knew something of the affair, 
but Walter felt sure that it had gone no further; for Rose’s 
friends still greeted him with ardour and rallied him on his 
flame’s absence; while Miss Higgins had gone abroad with 
some friends, leaving him supposedly desolate. 

Most people would have felt some embarrassment at the 
position. But to Bellamy it appeared to be full of hu- 
mour ; he liked to see the way that Bertie’s pleading glance 
and Higgins’ scowl hung upon him, to play Sir Peter in 
their presence. For the senior partner and originator of 
the great firm was failing rapidly, and took an almost senile 
delight in the young man, and the innovations which he in- 
troduced. 

Indeed there was some reason for his satisfaction; for 
the fashion for silk jackets, both of artificial and real silk, 
rose to a craze; while many more machines were intro- 
duced and set up by the four Germans, who taught the 
sharpest among the women operatives how to work them. 

By this time there were several more working at “ Clut- 
ton’s,” but this did not harm “ Morrison’s,” which had 
more orders than it could possibly carry out; indeed it 
strengthened its position, for the two firms had joined forces 
and bought over the monopoly of the English rights. 

115 


n6 


BELLAMY 


Rose came back to Edge, engaged to some Italian Count. 
The first time Bellamy met her he congratulated her beam- 
ingly. They were all right now, all happy; what was the 
good of “ crying over spilt milk ” ? It was his favourite 
adage. There was a spice of elfish malice in Walter Bel- 
lamy’s nature, but he was not personally vindictive ; had not 
time enough to trouble greatly about individuals ; was ready, 
literally, to kiss and be friends. 

But Rose would not speak or shake hands ; let alone kiss. 
She was inflated with the idea of her own importance ; the 
wrongs of Miss Higgins might smart, but the wrongs of a 
prospective Countess could only be wiped out in blood. 

After a while she married, and went to live in Turin, very 
unhappily, having counted on the rare combination of Eng- 
lish morals with a foreign title. And two years later she 
returned to Edge for good — with one weedy little boy — 
blowsy, loud voiced and coarsened by ill-temper. 

Some intricate process of thought led her to attribute all 
her troubles to Walter Bellamy; and she stirred up her 
father’s antipathy afresh with her venom. 

By this time Mrs. Higgins was dead of a disease which 
her husband diagnosed as “ silly ’ooman’s fancy,” and the 
doctors as cancer; while Bertie — who seemed to go com- 
pletely to pieces after his mother’s and Walter Bellamy’s 
influences were both removed — had been hastily shipped 
off to Australia, to save the results of some ingenious tam- 
pering with the signature of the firm. 

Fortunately Bellamy — now twenty-three years of age 
— • was in a position which was nearly unassailable ; though 
it would have been difficult to state his exact status in the 
firm. 

Nominally at the head of the travellers, he still appeared 
to be in everything. For should any operative in the fac- 
tory, any packer in the warehouse, or clerk in the office — 
even mechanic or tattler, attending to the women’s ma- 
chines — happen to be in difficulties as to what to do next, 
his first thought was of Walter. 

“ Better ask Wally — where’s Wally?” they would say, 
for in Edge the Christian name clings. 

With Bellamy this state of affairs had partly arisen from 
an ambition to excel, partly from a restless curiosity, and 


BELLAMY 


117 


partly from a minute interest in all that concerned the craft 
upon which he was engaged; while he still adhered to his 
determination to know just a little more than other people, 
whether in relation to the humblest piece of mechanism, 
the fluctuating qualities of Canton silk, or the ebb and flow 
of the world’s markets. 

He could let nothing be, take nothing for granted ; and it 
was this keen interest in detail, allied to his delight in get- 
ting the very best results out of everything which first set 
his brain to work round The Automatic Spooler. 

Originally, and still in a great many of the smaller fac- 
tories, sewing silk was spooled with a little machine worked 
by hand, one girl to one machine. 

But lately a large and delicately human piece of mechan- 
ism had been invented, worked by power, each machine 
capable of holding some fifty spools ; while the whole thing 
was attended to by one girl, whose sole duty consisted in 
removing the full spools and replacing them with empties. 

This machine had its moods. The girls condemned it as 
“ spiteful,” for the bobbins were apt to fly loose and hit 
them, while it would catch their fingers unless they were 
very careful: took the work out of their hands, the bread 
out of their mouths, and then turned on them. No wonder 
they hated it. 

But Walter Bellamy loved it, and if there was nothing 
else doing could usually be found in the spooling-room, 
watching the purring thing; while directly he got home from 
any journey he ran to it as a mother to her child. 

But it was not altogether admiration ; his mind was work- 
ing with it the whole time, while he was acutely aware of 
what he regarded as its one and only defect. 

Directly a spool was full the machine stopped. It was 
wonderfully done: the smoothing fingers of polished steel 
moved higher and higher over each as the silk thickened 
around it. Then, directly one was full the whole thing 
stopped; automatically, with never a coil too much. 

But the whole machine stopped. There, to Walter’s 
mind, lay the weakness. The attendant might start with an 
entire set of new spools ; but the silk in some must inevitably 
be a little thicker than in others. These would be finished 
first, and then all the others had to wait while they were 


n8 


BELLAMY 


replaced. Gradually as the day wore on the stoppages be- 
came more and more frequent, and more and more time 
was wasted; only a second or so, but still the seconds 
mounted up. 

The business of silk jackets had, unexpectedly enough, 
become staple and managed itself, while Walter did not em- 
broil himself in any more love affairs — though his fancy 
for Jane Irwin ran like a small sweet tune through his life, 
and he flew to her at once in any moment of triumph. 

He was earning five pounds a week now, besides a fair 
commission, and lived very comfortably. He had at last 
induced his mother to keep a servant; though she had re- 
taliated by immediately taking a lodger, and continuing to 
lurk in the back kitchen, while the girl, Bella — trim in cap 
and apron — waited at table, attended to the rooms, and did 
all the clean work. 

But when Walter had found that some outlet for his 
mother’s proclivities — which seemed to drive her on with 
the boring persistency of certain white insects which one 
finds under a flat stone — were really incurable, he arranged 
that the lodger should be Thompson — owner of the motor 
and his special friend, while he managed Bella so that she be- 
came his abject slave, thought nothing too good for him. 

Thus life ran smoothly; full of variety and interest. He 
had gay days in Birmingham and Manchester and an oc- 
casional trip to Paris; though, curiously enough, he only 
knew London by passing through it, for an old traveller of 
“Morrison’s” had had the capital as his special, and jeal- 
ously guarded, beat. 

Still things were running so easily that Bellamy’s versa- 
tile mind sought something to grapple with : found the patent 
spooler ; picked out its one fault and grappled with that. 

For months he thought it over: walking to the mill, in 
the train, or in bed at night. Till gradually his mind seemed 
to squeeze itself up into a cone — like certain projectiles — 
with the point riveted on the spooler. 

He always knew that when this took place something was 
bound to happen. In remembering a name or date, seeing 
his way out of a difficulty, making any elaborate mental cal- 
culation ; when it got to this point success was always sure. 

It was the same in this case. Suddenly, one night, he 


BELLAMY 


119 

awoke out of a sound sleep, with the thing so clear in his 
mind that an elaborate working plan might have been drawn 
on the retina of his eye. 

The full spools must not stop the machine; they must 
be managed so as to drop out into a crate below. The way 
in which this was to be done was so inevitable that Walter 
laughed at himself for not having thought of it before. It 
was all there; every detail. Even to the way in which the 
fresh spools must run down a little chute and drop into 
place ; so that there would be no fear of the girls’ fingers 
being caught in the ever-moving machinery. 

Still some one had to be taken into the secret : the mechan- 
ism was too intricate for him to attempt it alone, and he 
felt he must have a trained mind to back him. 

After long deliberation Walter chose the German with 
whom he had worked over the silk jackets : an elderly man 
named Vonberg, slow, heavy, and minutely painstaking. 

Together they roughed out a small wooden model. 
Thompson was the representative of a large firm of me- 
chanics in Birmingham, from him Bellamy got an introduc- 
tion — without saying what it was needed for — took them 
the pattern of the most intricate and necessary part of the 
new improvement, and induced them to copy it to scale. 

Meanwhile Vonberg managed to get the rest of the ma- 
chine — almost a precise copy of the original — made for 
him by a local man. 

Then a series of tiny spools were turned out by an Edge 
bobbin -maker. Vonberg had picked up an old treadle sew- 
ing-machine — which would supply the motive power — 
for next to nothing, at a sale: all that remained was to fit 
the parts together and start them working. 

Walter’s whole being sang with joy. The only drawback 
to his happiness was that the thing had to be kept secret : he 
would have loved to proclaim its wonders to the whole town. 

Nothing could be got out of Vonberg: “ Her may work ; 
and then again her may not. They is very awkward peo- 
ples, them machines,” he said, his whole expression lower- 
ing with anxiety. 

The day came upon which it was at last ready to be 
tested: in secret, in Walter’s room, where he was secure 
from interruption, for Thompson was away on his holidays. 


120 


BELLAMY 


His brain whirled and danced in anticipation with the 
spools. His imagination spun rainbow patterns with the 
flashing silk. It seemed as if the delicate mechanism 
throbbed and purred in thousands and ten of thousands of 
pounds : he was not merely a “ warm ” man like Higgins ; 
he was a millionaire, with special trains and yachts. 

All that day he danced on air. He was ineffably con- 
descending to the two senior partners of the firm: charm- 
ing to the junior, who had recently been admitted, and at 
whose inclusion he had hotly rebelled, feeling that the place 
was, by rights, his own. 

But now he did not want to be a partner, even in so great 
a firm as Morrison’s. He wanted to be, and meant to be, 
something far greater. 

It was, of course, an absolute necessity, and Vonberg was 
stolidly insistent on this point, that, until everything was 
quite certain the whole idea must be kept a profound secret. 
And to this Bellamy — though he was so enchanted with 
his own cleverness, with the wonder of the contrivance, 
that he would like to have told it to the whole town — con- 
sented. Though, at the same time he compromised on 
Jane. Jane must be with him when first he got the machine 
going. 

Vonberg was bitterly antagonistical towards the idea: — 
“ Tell von woman and you might as veil cry it aloud to the 
town,” he said. But still Walter stuck to his point. 

It was a late autumn evening, with a wet wind scurrying 
up the steep streets of Edge, when the momentous trial was 
to take place ; but Jane had struggled gallantly along through 
it, though almost swept away by the wild evolutions of her 
umbrella. 

Her mackintosh was drenched, wisps of wet hair were 
plastered across her forehead beneath her down-drawn knit- 
ted cap; her cheeks were aflame, her eyes glowed, as she 
knocked at the back door, and — without waiting for Mrs. 
Bellamy to reply — opened it; slid in through the crack, 
and slammed it in the face of the wind ; her firm shoulder 
against the panelling, her strong little hands grappling with 
the lock. 

Once all was firm again, she opened her umbrella : stood 
it in a corner of the scullery to drain, and shook herself, 


BELLAMY 


121 


laughing, with the drops of water running down her face, 
smelling sweetly of the clean open air. 

“ La ! what a night ! Oi never knowed such a back end ” 
(autumn) “ fur rantin’ tearin’ winds as this ’un.” 

# She took off her cap as she spoke, and hung it before the 
kitchen fire, then ran her hands through her wet hair. 

“ You’ll catch your death,” declared Mrs. Bellamy, wash- 
ing up the tea-things, draping herself dismally over the 
sink. “ The weather is in my bones ; I was telling the 
burial man only ter-day as he wouldn’t get much more out 
o’ me. An’ time enough too, a penny a week fur thirty 
years, it makes my yead muzzy to think on it.” 

“ Get out o’ that an’ I’ll finish with them crocks,” said 
Jane. Drew up a chair in front of the fire, pulled the 
widow to her feet, propelled her firmly towards it, and 
forced her into a sitting position. Then tucked up her 
sleeves and turned the tap on full, so as to drown the stream 
of complaints and prognostications. 

“ Walter’ull be in a tackin. ’Ee’s waitin’ fur yer, yer’d 
best be off. Oi don’t expect young folk to ’ave any time 
from their junketing fur me; all they wants is ter get us 
safe out o’ road. Keepin’ things back from the mither as 
bore ’im. There ’ee is boxed up all secret loike with that 
there furriner, as whom Oi’d not be surprised if ’ee wur a 
murderer; furriners ain’t not ter be trusted, not no ’ow. 
Furrin’ by name’s bad enough — an Oi ought ter know, ter 

moy cost But the Lord only knows what furrin’ by 

nature ain’t up to. Thee best go, or Walter’ull be blamin’ 
it on me.” 

“ Tut, let Walter be.” Jane had already finished washing 
the dishes and was drying them. 

They were all arranged on the shelves, and she had 
scrubbed down the sink, replenished the fire, and swept the 
grate, and was standing in front of Mrs. Bellamy — listen- 
ing to a long account of all Bella’s misdemeanours — when 
Walter called down the stairs to know if she had come. 

But Jane would not answer ; shook her head at Mrs. Bel- 
lamy, and even put her hand in front of her mouth to keep 
her quiet. 

“ Let him wait,” she said : “ it’s good for men folk ter 
be kept waiting.” 


122 


BELLAMY 


“ Walter ain’t one as is used ter waiting, I don’t never 
not keep him waiting, not a moment. If ever ’ee ’as a 

wife ” began Mrs. Bellamy unctuously. But Jane cut 

in, with her shrewd Staffordshire broadness. 

“ Oi reckon yer kept ’im waitin’ fur nine months ter start 
with, Missus Bellamy,” she said. Then reverted again to 
the subject of Bella; took up the cat, stroked it, and set it a 
saucer of milk. Turning at last, leisurely enough towards 
the door : “ Oi reckon Oi’d best go an’ see what the to-do’s 
about.” 

“ ’Ee won’t not tell me a word o’ what ’ee’s up ter,” said 
Mrs. Bellamy, a note of bitter jealousy in her voice. 

“ Likely enough, he don’t want his Mammy ter know the 
ninny he is.” 

“ Thank you for nothing, Miss Impudence ! ” snapped the 
mother. ** There’s such things as sour grapes, let me tell 
yer that — misnaming my Wally when ye’d give the eyes 
out o’ yer yead fur ’im, as all the town knows.” 

But Jane only laughed as she left the room, made her 
way up the stairs and knocked at the door which faced the 
top of them. 

There was the sound of a key turning in the lock and 
Bellamy peered out. 

“Ah, Jane! It’s only plain Jane,” he called back into 
the room behind him — “ plain Jane ” was one of his many 
nicknames for her, in allusion to her outspoken ways — 
then drew her in and locked the door again ; gave her arm 
a friendly squeeze, and moved away to the big table which 
— excepting for the bed — engrossed most of the floor 
space. 

The room was, for the greater part in darkness, for the 
two men had rigged up a central pair of gas lights, such as 
are commonly seen over billiard-tables, with a powerful 
green shade which cast the whole of the light in a great oval 
moon over the table, upon which stood the model ; while 
on the floor by its side was the ancient treadle sewing-ma- 
chine. 

Jane had been told nothing, except that Wally had in- 
vented some new piece of machinery; even now she asked 
no questions, for her quick eyes took in every detail: the 
bulky figure of the German in his shirt sleeves, sprawling 


BELLAMY 


123 

half across the table, the tiny, gaily tinted reels, the bright 
steel of the spooling machine, and Walter’s glowing face, 
almost on a level with it, for directly after admitting Jane 
he had dropped to his knees by its side. 

“ Sit still, Jane, there’s a chair for you. Now, watch, 
watch ! ” 

His strong, broad hands were poised above the intricate 
little model, fluttering like birds ; some of the silken thread 
had got tangled in the wheels, and he busied himself with 
them, while the German passed his finger-tips delicately 
over each bolt and screw, as if in a caress. He had not 
raised his head as Jane entered, and only grunted in an- 
swer to her gentle, “ Good evening, Mr. Vonberg.” 

For a while she sat there very quiet in the chair assigned 
to her, her hands folded in her lap, and watched the two 
men. The great bulk of Vonberg’s back, his roughly hewn 
head, and large deft hands ; and beyond him Walter’s flushed 
face, sparkling eyes and twinkling fingers. The whole re- 
peated in a fantastic shadow show, which danced up the 
wall and cut across the angles of the ceiling: menacing 
blocks of head and shoulders, and huge hands, hovering and 
pouncing like Fate. 

At last Walter rose, and straightened himself, with a jerk. 
Then bent forward a little, his eyes on the German’s face. 

“ Now?” he said, the word an interrogation. 

There was a long pause. Then a sharp “ Ja,” like a bark, 
and pulling up a chair close to the machine Walter began 
treading steadily, his engrossed eyes still on his model. 

There was a sharp click as the gear adjusted itself ; then, 
with a gentle, continuous hum the tiny spools began to re- 
volve. 

Jane — leaning forward, her whole intelligence concen- 
trated on the differences in this new spooler — saw the full 
reels drop into the cardboard boxes, which took the place 
of the baskets beneath it, one after another like ripe plums ; 
while the German loomed over it, feeding it with empties. 

It seemed as if time and space, life itself as such, had 
ceased, that the only real sentient thing left was this pulsing 
affair of steel rods and wheels : as if they were there as its 
slaves and nothing more, hung in air apart from all other 
worlds. 


BELLAMY 


124 

Presently her quick eyes observed that the reels were 
coming to an end. Without a word she rose, drew the box 
towards her and scooped out the full reels. 

The German barked at her, some inarticulate word, but 
she took no notice : pushed back the box into its place, and 
began to unwind the silk steadily ; supplying him with empty 
spools which he took from her hand in silence, without even 
glancing at her. 

Now and then the thread broke; once something jammed, 
and Walter sprang to his feet, and hung over the machine, 
while Jane took his seat at the treadle, sitting watchful and 
alert till he nodded to her to go on. 

After a moment or two he returned to his place, freeing 
her for her former task of unwinding the full bobbins. 

Through it all there was no word spoken ; while no sound 
broke the stillness, save Vonberg’s heavy breathing, and the 
purring hum of the little model. 

At last the German drew himself upright: 

“ Gott, but she goes ! ” he said ; and wiped his shirtsleeve 
across his forehead. 

“ I knew it, I knew it.” Walter’s voice was shrill with 
excitement. “ Jane, we’ll make our fortune. Jane, you 
shall have all the pretty frocks you want. We’ll get a mo- 
tor ” — the girl thrilled at the intimacy of the plural pronoun 
— “ they’ll have ter take me into the firm ! No, I won’t go 
in, I’ll lease them the monopoly. They’ll shut down all the 
other branches; do nothing but spool silk, lead the world 
in it, like Coates with cotton ! Jane ! Vonberg ! — You two 
silent sticks ! What are we to do to celebrate ? What can 
one do in Edge — if we were in Manchester now! Isn’t 
she a darling, a daisy ! ” He hung across the table, his 
eyes gloating over the precious thing. 

The German looked at Jane, peering curiously through 
his great spectacles. Put out one hand, caught her firm 
little chin between his finger and thumb and raised her face. 

“ Have you not gotten one tongue, Fraulein Jane?” he 
enquired. 

Jane put it out, frankly, impudently; and Vonberg 
grinned. 

“ It is there,” he said. “ It is von long, red tongue ; and 
yet you knows how to keep her still — an’ you a female ! ” 


BELLAMY 


12 5 


His hand dropped to her shoulder. “ I will marry you, if 
you like, Fraulein Jane; you would make a good wife with 
your still tongue; and I do not find you so plain as our 
young friend does say. ,, 

“ Thank you for nothing,” said Jane. “ Wally,” she leant 
across the table and plucked at Bellamy’s shirtsleeve : “ you 
be careful now! — Just you mind how you go, or Higgins 
will be robbing that off you, sure as my name’s Jane Irwin. 
And I’d not care ter see yer robbed o’ th’ only thing yer 
ever did worth doin’ 1 ” 


CHAPTER XXI 


B EFORE the improved spooler was actually completed 
Walter and Vonberg had talked over the question of 
patenting it. But, unfortunately, Walter Bellamy 
knew nothing of the patent laws, and his companion noth- 
ing of the English laws of any kind. It seemed that little 
could be done till the machine was in working order, and 
then Walter — all aflame to submit it to his superiors — 
could not brook the thought of the long delays necessary 
for its registration; besides which he was true to his class 
in his dread of anything to do with the law. 

All the time it was actually in the making he kept the 
secret, though longing to proclaim it; hugging it with 
the glee of a child who knows something that no one else 
knows. But the moment it was finished he began to feel 
a little tired of it, impatient with it. Anxious to push the 
thing through, to see the small repeated in the great. 

Then the expenses of making the model had drained both 
his resources and Vonberg’s to the uttermost. They had no 
ready money left; had each mortgaged several weeks’ pay, 
and were still heavily in debt to Thompson’s people. 

Vonberg was of that secretive nature which trusts no- 
body. But Walter Bellamy, although he hated and in a 
way despised “ Morrison’s,” had the same sneaking belief in 
it which a man retains for the religion of his childhood ; 
while his nerves were strained by the very thought of any 
further delay. For he was one of those people who are 
constitutionally incapable of waiting. 

The German’s stolidity exasperated him. His suggestion 
that they should hide away the machine and wait for a year 
or more, till they could afford it ample protection, was un- 
thinkable. Walter knew himself well enough to realise that, 
by that time, he would be totally engrossed in something 
else. Besides, he was already starting to spend the money 


BELLAMY 


,127 

which he anticipated “ Morrison’s ” as likely to pay him for 
the monopoly. 

After all it was his invention; and he had only bound 
himself to give Vonberg a certain percentage of the profits 
— ■ whatever they might be. 

There were a good many scenes between the two men; 
while more than once Vonberg called at the Irwins’ cottage 
and asked Jane to use her influence with Walter. But she 
knew that was impossible. One might guide him gently in 
the direction he wished to go ; but no power on earth could 
turn him away from it. 

“ Yer maun just let him gang his own gait; fur there’s 
no guidin’ or gainsayin’ him when he’s once set,” she de- 
clared. 

And she was right. For one morning, soon after this — 
bored to death with the whole thing — Walter asked for a 
special interview with the heads of the firm ; and explained 
to them what he had done and how greatly they would 
benefit by his invention. 

“ How much do you want for it ? ” Higgins shot the en- 
quiry point-blank through his rhapsodies. 

Walter had meant to keep an interest in his invention. 
To lease the monopoly, or to demand a percentage on its 
earnings. 

But suddenly the thought of money, of a fine round sum 
which he could invest in a business of his own went to his 
head; besides he wanted to have the thing settled, to feel 
free to turn his energies into a new channel; and he rapped 
out : — 

“ Ten thousand pounds.” 

Higgins laughed roughly. “ It wud’na make as much in 
as many years ; even if it’ull work, which I doubt.” 

The junior partner, Joyce, was away, and only old Peter 
Morrison and Higgins were there; the former sunk deep 
in his chair, an immense bulk of flesh with apparently little 
of life about it, save in the eyes, which, dim and sunken, 
kept turning wistfully from one man to the other, as though 
he were trying to understand what they were saying. 

With an impetuous movement Bellamy flung round to- 
wards him. “After all it is for you to decide; if you will 
only see it, Sir.” 


128 


BELLAMY 


“ Aye, aye, lad. But I don’t know that I rightly under- 
stand what it is you’re driving at.” 

“ It’s an improvement on the automatic spooler which 
does twice the work in half the time — will save you hun- 
dreds of pounds.” Walter spoke slowly and distinctly, as 
though to a child. 

“ But we’ve got an automatic spooler, an’ I don’t know 
that it’s much good as it is. In my young days it was all 
done by hand, there was no thought of such things: and 
only seven shillings a week to the girls too. There’s over 
many of them new-fangled ideas coming out now, lad.” 

“ But this is an improvement,” pleaded Walter. 

Higgins rose noisily to his feet. “ Well, we canna’ waste 
no more time on it now; nor you neither. Ye’ll have ter 
let it bide, Bellamy, and get those invoices out.” 

“ If you won’t give it a chance, won’t even look at it I’ll 
offer it somewhere else,” cried Walter hotly. “ Clutton 
and Son would have it in a minute.” 

“ That mustn’t be allowed, Higgins.” Morrison spoke 
with something of his old peremptory air. “ Whatever it is 
that the lad’s done it must be seen and judged on its merits.” 
He raised himself slowly from his chair, and stood holding 
on to the side of the table. “ He’s a fine lad, a sharp lad, 
who knows ” 

** Well, it’ull have ter be another time, Mr. Morrison,” 
put in his partner. “ We’ve more than enough to get 
through to-day as it is, without wasting time over any fal- 
daddles. There’s a pile of papers as have been waiting for 
a week past for your signature.” 

“When? Will you fix a time, please, Sir?” Walter’s 
eyes were on the old man’s face, he was determined to tie 
him down to a day and hour if possible. “ Will to-morrow 
morning do — say eleven o’clock ? ” 

The dim, wavering glance strayed from Bellamy and 
sought Higgins’ face. 

“ Better not make any engagement. We’re full up : the 
thing can wait,” declared the latter harshly, with raised 
voice. 

But Walter took no notice of him. With an effort of 
will it seemed as if he forced the senior partner’s eyes back 
to his. 


BELLAMY 


129 


? “To-morrow at eleven o’clock, would that suit you, Sir? 
I’m sure you’d find it worth your while.” 

“ I think so — I think so. I don’t recollect that I have 
any other engagement for that hour.” With trembling 
hands the old man took out a notebook and fluttered over 
the pages : aimlessly as if scarcely knowing what he sought 
for. 

Then, with a sudden air of decision, he snapped the elastic 
band round it again, slipped the pencil into its place, and 
put it back in his pocket. 

“ Yes — very well, Bellamy. To-morrow at eleven : I 
suppose the model’s at your home.” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Well, you can tell one of the carters to call and fetch 
it up ; and we’ll give it our full consideration. Good morn- 
ing to you.” 

Walter had not seen him so decided in months. Once 
more there had been something of the old “ King Morri- 
son ” in his mien ; the battering-ram attitude, which could 
be so benevolent to those whose aims ran with his and yet 
never overstepped the boundaries of servility. 

Things would be different again if the old man once broke 
loose from Higgins’ sway, which had been growing ever 
more and more absolute from the time of the great strike. 

But it was the old king’s last effort of authority. 

Walter saw one of the carters that afternoon, and ar- 
ranged for him to call for the model next morning — be- 
fore he went to the mill — when he drove up with it him- 
self. 

That was after the breakfast hour, and the buzzer had 
gone before they topped the hill and fronted the big mill. 
By rights everybody should have been in at their work ; but 
instead of that they were gathered in little groups talking 
together. 

Walter Bellamy guessed that something was wrong. In- 
deed it needed no guessing, for it was in the looks of even 
the most casual passers-by, in the very atmosphere. 

At the block of offices he got out, and beckoned to the 
workmen to come and help him lift the model, which was 
wound in a sheet. 

The man spit on his hands and felt over the swathed form 


130 


BELLAMY 


gingerly. Then caught hold of it in the place which Bel- 
lamy indicated, while he himself took the other side, and to- 
gether they tackled the steps; Walter facing upwards. 

Half-way the man paused and spoke. “ Gummy, 1 ” he 
said, “ but this ’ere’s a sorry business, ain’t it ; we’re won- 
derin’ what difference it’ull maeke ter us, me an’ my mates.” 

“ What’s that? ” asked Walter. “ Steady now, mind you 
don’t slip.” 

“ Poor owd Peter Morrison ; but Oi reckon ye’ve ’eard : 
died in ’is sleep last night, ’ee did. Hold on! Lordy! but 
yer gave me a fright, Oi’d made sure as yer’d dropped it. 
Aye, it’ull maeke a difference ter us, that’s sure. ’Ee was an 
’ard ’un, was Peter Morrison, but Oi’ll say this much fur 
’im — ’ee was just; an’ ’Iggins ain’t even that; if only once 
he gets his knife inter a man ’ee don’t not stop fur nothing.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


T HE sheet which hung over the model of the im- 
proved spooler grew grimier and grimier as it stood, 
week after week, in the corner of the office where 
Walter habitually worked. 

At first the sight of it got on his nerves. Something must 
be done, and that quickly. He could not get hold of Hig- 
gins, who swept him aside with brusque insolence ; but once 
he induced the junior partner to look at it. However, the 
young man’s thoughts were elsewhere; he was worried by 
Sir Peter’s death which gave him work where he had merely 
hoped to make money. 

“ Yes, yes: very nice, I’m sure. Very ingenious. Some 
day — some day, when we’ve more leisure. But there’s too 
much on hand now — no time to turn round, don’t you 
know. All this South American affair and all.” 

He was right. Neither of the heads of the firm had any 
time to attend to anything. There was talk of turning 
44 Morrison’s ” into a company : besides there was what the 
junior partner spoke of as 44 The South American Affair.” 

Hitherto the raw, artificial silk had been prepared in 
Coventry and sent in large skeins, or hanks, to Edge. But 
the supply was neither certain nor satisfactory; for the 
fashion had become so universal that Coventry was not 
always equal to the demands made upon her. 

Some months before the old man’s death Morrison’s had 
been putting up new buildings, with a plant for making the 
silk themselves, from wood which was to be supplied to 
them ready pulped. 

This had been Joyce’s idea. Indeed it was towards this 
end that he had thrown in his lot with the firm ; for he was 
already connected with the wood pulp business, and came 
of a family of timber merchants, sawyers and pulpers in 
South America, where his people held a large area of 
land. 


132 


BELLAMY 


At the time of Peter Morrison’s death he had been pre- 
pared to go out there; definitely arrange for a large con- 
tract, see through the first consignment and ship it home. 

That was at an end for the present. But still the thing 
could not wait. There was a certain season for pulping 
the wood, and they could not afford to let it go past. No 
wonder that there seemed little spare time in which to at- 
tend to Walter Bellamy’s modd. 

The young man himself half forgot it, and put off from 
day to day offering it to any one else: a step which would 
practically mean an offer of his own services also. 

As a matter of fact he did not wish to leave Morrison’s 
at that moment, even if it were to better himself ; for the 
ever-growing factory, and the exotic air of the South Amer- 
ican scheme had fired his imagination. 

If only he had the chance that Joyce had been obliged to 
let slip. 

His fancy ran riot in the depth of pathless forests — 
orchid hung; was shot through by a dark-eyed Senhorita; 
mules with jangling bells and scarlet trappings, all the glow 
and wonder and warmth of tropical life. 

The artificial silk, in its gloss and fineness, became to his 
mind a sentient thing — a living tree with golden fruits and 
immense waving leaves, jewelled by lizards; the sap run- 
ning warm as blood through its veins, exuding precious 
gums. 

What was an automatic spooler, however ingenious, com- 
pared with such wonders? 

“ Bring her back to your own house ; keep her till we vill 
be able to pay for her patent,” wrote Vonberg, who had 
been recalled to Germany by family affairs, in which “ Frau- 
lein Jane” — despite much pressing — declined to take any 
part. 

Walter fully meant to take it back. But the whole thing 
had lost interest for him; was as much forgotten as Rose 
had once been waiting at the corner of Little France. All 
he wanted, all he thought of and worked for now, was the 
chance of going to South America in Joyce’s place. 

He put forward a claim, for he was not one to lose any 
chance by not asking. 

After all the mission had nothing to do with the working 


BELLAMY 


133 


of the wood, was merely a matter of business which he un- 
derstood more thoroughly than most people connected with 
the firm and Joyce seemed willing enough to entertain the 
idea. But there was Higgins to be considered, and it did 
not seem likely that he would agree to any move which 
meant an advancement in Walter Bellamy’s position. 

However, to the young man’s amazement, he consented 
without demur; almost with eagerness. It amused Bel- 
lamy. Was the old fellow still so sore over his daughter’s 
escapade that he wanted to get him out of his sight? 

Anyhow the motive was not worth bothering about. He 
was actually going to South America — the land of his 
dreams — and that alone was enough for him. 

There was no time to think of anything except the busi- 
ness in hand ; for his passage was taken for the very week 
after Higgins gave his consent, and he spent most of his 
time receiving instruction from Joyce — who knew the 
country, and all that would be required of him — and get- 
ting together his outfit. 

Jane — who was to stay with his mother while he was 
away, for by this time her brothers and sisters were old 
enough to take care of themselves — saw him off at the 
station. 

Almost her last words were : — “ Wally, what about that 
there spooler? Sure to goodness you’ll not let ’un bide up 
Morrison’s while yer away; leave me a note so Oi may 
take a conveyance an’ get ’un back home.” 

“ Hang the patent spooler ! ” cried Walter, half wild with 
excitement. Then picked her up, with his two hands either 
side of her trim little waist, and kissed her. There on the 
Edge platform : on market-day too, in full sight of half the 
population of the town! 

Jane was not one to make too sure of anything, particu- 
larly when it was in any way connected with Walter Bel- 
lamy; but there was little wonder, after this public display, 
that she bought fine calico and lace and set to work on sun- 
dry garments, in the evenings after her return from the 
mill ; when she had finished helping Mrs. Bellamy wash up 
the tea-things, amid a stream of prognostications as to the 
bad end certain for Bella, and the inevitable fate of Wal- 
ter ! — “ The best son as any poor ’ooman ever ’ad ” — who 


134 


BELLAMY 


had been born without a caul and was therefore certain sure 
ter be drowned at sea. 

Letter writing did not come easy to Jane Irwin. But 
about a month after Walter’s departure she wrote — 
brusquely as she spoke — advising him, in his next com- 
munication to the firm, to ask that the model of the spooler 
should be sent back to his own home. 

Bellamy was struck by this and wondered what was hap- 
pening, for he knew that shrewd little Jane must have some 
good reason for what she said. 

But he was engrossed during the whole of each day in 
wood pulp, and in the idea of a new and wonderful ma- 
terial to supplement it : a material which, out there, was so 
much waste, would cost a mere song to procure ; while his 
evenings, and — I regret to say some of his nights — were 
monopolised by a Senhorita such as he had dreamt of at 
Edge, whom, in the flesh, he discovered to be a curious and 
greedy animal; ministering to his physical needs and love 
of beauty without diverting his mind, in the very least, from 
the business on hand. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


A FTER five months Bellamy came back to Edge, 
tanned and broadened. He had mixed with a dif- 
ferent class of people. The indolent air of South 
America had softened his somewhat aggressive manner; 
while his own Southern blood had found a certain sense of 
kinship in the ways and outlook of the half Spanish races 
with which he had mixed. 

He had left Edge a typical, young, middle-class English 
business man ; he returned to it more French than English, 
all the Gallic traits — of which he had shown such traces 
in his boyhood — once more to the front; for he had found 
that the foreign pose attracted, and cultivated it — with the 
help of a hereditary predisposition — till it became almost 
second nature to him. 

The first evening back in his old home, sitting talking 
with Thompson, lolling half in and half out of the window, 
he seemed to Jane Irwin to be handsomer than ever, more 
alive; more truly self-confident. 

But the change in him went beyond this. She had been 
shaken to her depths by his return; now she found herself 
further away from him than when he was in South America. 

There was something which she was bound to tell him. 
Before he came she had wondered how she would prevent 
herself bursting out with it the very first moment they met. 
Now she sat turning what she had to say over and over in 
her mind. Thinking : ** I will speak of it when they’ve 

finished what they’re saying.” Waiting for Walter to men- 
tion the mill, then sheering away from the subject directly 
it was broached. 

All that night the thought of what she had left untold 
tormented her. But next morning, to her relief, Walter 
came down in his pyjamas to beg for a cup of tea — while 
she was getting ready to go to the mill — and, almost be- 
fore she knew what she was saying it was out ; 

135 


BELLAMY 


136 

“ Wally, your spooler — I hear — the girls from up 
1 Morrison’s ’ have told me — they’ve got it goin’.” 

“ What!” 

“ Patented and made an’ all.” 

“ It’s not true — why, Higgins wouldn’t touch it.” 

“ It’s true enough. I don’t rightly know if it’s the same 
all roads, but it works as yourn worked.” 

“ They have it made, in working? Jane!” 

“ More nor a dozen — they’ll let no one else touch ’em, 
have gotten the whole o’ the trade : ” her kind grey eyes 
were full on his face, it was his first real set back — how 
would he take it ? 

“ My invention ! ” 

“ Ye’ve only yersen to blame, Walter Bellamy,” Jane’s 
voice was curt with suppressed feeling; “ there seems no 
teachin’ yer sense.” 

“ God damn ’em ! ” Walter’s face was white, his eyes 
flaming. “ They’d no right ter touch it — it’s mine — it’s 
mine I tell you ! ” 

“ That’s a way o’ yourn, young Wally, countin’ as things 
are yourn, an’ lettin’ on ’em bide till yer happen ter want 
’em/’ remarked Jane with unusual bitterness; the loaf of 
bread held up to her breast as she cut her butty. 

“ But of course they’ll pay me — they were only waiting 
till I came back,” declared Walter. Gave a short laugh, 
and repeated again : — “ Of course they’ll pay me.” 

Jane did not reply. Her soft mouth was crushed into a 
straight line, and she eyed him keenly above the loaf. He 
was so used to getting everything his own way, his very 
sureness was apt to make a fool of him. 

“ They’re only waiting for me to come back,” he repeated 
" loudly, like a man arguing against his own conviction. 
Stood for a moment in silence, then broke out again: 
“ Does it drop the full spools into baskets beneath ? ” 

Jane nodded. 

• “ Ay, I told them that, I said there were to be baskets — 
and the empties run down the slots into place ? ” 

Again the girl nodded, still without a word. 

Suddenly the colour flamed up into Walter Bellamy’s 
face, and catching at her arm he shook her. 

“ What the devil do you want to look like that for ? I 


BELLAMY 


137 

asked ten thousand pounds for it. They’ve got to pay me. 
Do you hear ? Got to, got to ! What have you been doing ? 
Why didn’t you let me know what they were up to? I 
thought you were my friend ; why didn’t you let me know ? ” 
“I wrote — three times,” answered Jane. And remem- 
bering two letters after that first — begging him to do some- 
thing — then a third which he had mislaid unread — Walter 
veered. 

“And Vonberg? What was Vonberg doing to let them 
steal my machine — mine ! I suppose he didn’t care, I sup- 
pose he thought he wasn’t going to get enough out of it. 
Wasn’t that like a German ! ” 

“ I wrote an’ told him ; he came over from Germany him- 
sen on purpose. But he could do nothing. Higgins laughed 
in his face ; said as how he might as well lay claim ter every 
new invention as was ever made. You’ve no call ter blame 
Vonberg.” 

“ But what of the model ? What the hell ” 

“ Hush thee, lod, hush ! ” Jane laid her hand upon Bel- 
lamy’s arm: he seemed nearer to her now, in his pain and 
anger, than he had done as the nonchalant traveller of the 
night before. “ He did all as he could. ‘ Model,’ says 

Higgins, ‘ what model ? ’ Vonberg tells him as how it 

was in yor office ; and was answered that all the old rubbish 
had been cleaned out when the place was redded up Wakes 
week. Joyce said the same. They’d hear nothing on it. 
Vonberg he got round some of the men later on ; an’ one of 
’em up an’ said as how he believed there was bits of it in 
the scrappin’ yard. An’ they went out an’ looked, but they 
could find nought ; not as much as a bolt or a screw.” 

“ They shall pay for it ! They shall pay what I asked, or 
the whole town shall know of it. By God, I’ll expose them ! 
I’ll dress an’ go up mill now.” 

Again Jane caught at his arm. “ Look you ’ere, Wally. 
What are yer goin’ ter do agin * Morrison’s.’ The worst 
’ud be no more nor a flea-bite. It’s a company now. 
There’s fine gentlemen — lords an’ what not — from Lun- 
non in it. Yer ’ll not only have ter foight Higgins, ye’ll 
have ter foight the whole lot o’ them directors — lords and 
members o’ Parliament — an’ Higgins and Joyce both 
magistrates! Who’d believe yer word against them? Yer’d 


BELLAMY 


138 

make a hole in yer manners, an’ that’s all you’d do if yer 
went up in the taekin’ yer in now.” 

“ I’ll make a hole in their heads.” 

“ An’ go ter gaol for it.” 

“ I’ll have the law of ’em.” Walter’s anger had cooled ; 
he spoke sullenly, for he realised that Jane was right, and 
the knowledge of his own helplessness bit into him. 

“ It’s ill work goin’ ter law with them as maekes the law. 
Just yer wait till after yer dressed and ha’ done yer break- 
fast. Then taeke ’em up all the reports, an’ such like as yer 
have wid yer.” 

“ I sent the duplicates of all I had by another boat, before 
I sailed, in case of an accident.” Walter gave a bitter 
laugh. “ By God, they’ve all they want o’ me. They can 
give me the go-bye now if they’re so minded.” 

“ Then don’t give ’em a chance. Wait till all talk o’ the 
other business is at an end. Then see the spoolers goin’ ; 
an’ mention it to ’em, civil like, as the idea was yourn an’ 
yer’ve never been paid for ’un, not yet.” 

Walter moved over to the window, and stood for a few 
moments staring out, his hands in his jacket pockets. He 
had been diddled, utterly diddled! He, Walter Bellamy, 
who had been so sure of himself : thought himself so 
sharp. 

This then was the meaning of the mission to South Amer- 
ica, of Higgins’ easy compliance. If only he had held on 
to the idea of the spooler, had not grown tired of it, let it 
slip. 

Except during the few moments he had spent over Jane’s 
letters, he had never even thought of his invention since he 
left England. 

But now it seemed as though nothing else mattered. 
With the sense of difficulty and failure all his old interest 
revived. He would get his rights or he would get even 
with “ Morrison’s.” 

But Jane was right. He remembered a case at the time 
of the strike, when one of the men on picket duty was given 
three months — with Peter Morrison and Higgins and two 
other mill-owners on the bench — for striking a man, who 
himself denied that he ever had been struck. 

It was indeed ill work going to law with those that made 


BELLAMY 


139 

the law. But still there were other ways of fighting, and 
a fight was always worth having. 

He turned round, laughing ; his face cleared. “ By God, 
I’ll make them smart for this, one way or another. But 
you’re right, Jane — you’re wiser than ever and prettier 
than ever, Jenette.” 

He stared at her meditatively. She was very wise and 
very pretty. The only real woman, or so it seemed to him, 

that he had ever known. Should he for a moment the 

thought of their parting on Edge platform returned to him. 

Then his face hardened. He could not be bothered with 
women now, at a time like this. There was Higgins to 
think of. He and Higgins were quits : now it was his turn 
to move. And without so much as another glance at Jane, 
he turned and went slowly out of the room. 

Jane was right. Walter could get nothing out of “ Mor- 
rison’s ” ; for to acknowledge that he had any claim at all 
on the improved spooler was to acknowledge it in its en- 
tirety, and that the authorities would not do. 

Joyce seemed bewildered; it was evident that he took 
very little interest in the inner workings of the mill, and 
scarcely understood the rights of the case; while Higgins 
was like adamant, absolutely refusing to discuss the affair. 

There were alterations in the new machine, as it now 
stood, which differentiated it from Walter’s model; and 
though the same idea had obviously been followed, it was 
difficult to say that the improvements were not the natural 
outcome of the defects observable in the old spooler. 

Then the new machine had been made in Germany, this 
alone rendered the establishment of any claim the more dif- 
ficult, as that country specialised in such things, was con- 
tinually making improvements on the existing machines. 
Walter Bellamy suspected two of the German tattlers, who 
had originally come over with the knitting plant, one of 
whom had been back to Germany for a so-called holiday 
during his absence; but what proof had he? Even if the 
train of evidence was complete, there was no money with 
which to fight a case against a firm like “ Morrison’s,” a 
firm whose position was almost unassailable. He wrote a 
letter to the Board of Directors stating his case; but only 
received the answer that they had perfect confidence in 


140 


BELLAMY 


their Edge representative, before whom “ any minor com- 
plaints must be laid.” 

He might go on laying complaints. The only end would 
be dismissal; with no particular character, a state of affairs 
which would please Higgins and put any chance of revenge 
out of his reach: while, if he once got the reputation of 
being a tiresome, quarrelsome fellow, no other firm would 
be anxious to employ him. 

He was shrewd enough to realise all this, to let the sub- 
ject drop; at least for a while. But the experience hard- 
ened him, rendering him — what he had never been before 
— • suspicious and vindictive. 

He had always meant to climb up: felt no compunction 
as to whom he trod underfoot in the process; but this cal- 
lousness had not arisen from any feeling of spite — apart 
from the large dislike of class for class — but from the 
realisation that, standing upright, certain people were in his 
way, while underfoot they only served to raise him higher. 

Now, in connection with “ Morrison’s ” there came into 
his life, for the first time, a sense of personal animosity : a 
feeling which grew till he became absolutely possessed of 
that most corroding of human desires — the wish to “ get 
even with” a fellow-creature; while life ceased, for the 
time being, to represent a joyous game and became a sport, 
in which he appeared to himself, alternately, as the tracker 
and the tracked. 

He was as industrious as ever, a harder and more bril- 
liant man of business, though still retaining that air of 
polish and restraint which he had brought back with him 
from South America. Indeed there was not a fault on 
which Higgins could lay a finger, as far as the firm was 
concerned; though unedifying tales of Bellamy’s private 
life were whispered all over Edge. 

His mother was always well provided for, but he lost all 
personal interest in her; at times an odd feeling came to 
him that they were so far apart he would hardly recognise 
her if he met her in the street. It was the same with Jane, 
he had lost touch with her, and looked at her coldly and 
curiously : wondering how she had ever moved him, in what 
way he was different from other young men that it seemed 
impossible for him really to fall in love. 


BELLAMY 


141 


But it was the same with his newer friends: with the 
circles of admiring acquaintances which he had established 
at all the provincial towns where his business took him, and 
with whom he was overwhelmingly popular. They did not 
touch him in the very least ; he felt no real liking for them, 
or pride in them — though many of them were men far 
above his own station in life. For to Walter Bellamy they 
were only so many pawns in that great game of “ getting 
on,” in which each piece that you won over to your own 
side counted for something; and realising this fact he pon- 
dered over it with a sort of cold curiosity. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


A NOTHER year passed. Jane Irwin, back in her 
own cottage, with her two younger sisters, saw less 
and less of Walter. 

Sometimes after breakfast, clattering back to work in her 
little clogs — the sound of clogs in Edge is like the tick of 
a clock set always for working hours — she would meet him 
going up to “ Morrison’s,” spick and span in his dark blue 
suit — for he never wore a great-coat, even in the coldest 
weather, unless it was actually raining or snowing — when 
he would whip off his hat to her with a courteous bow, and 
“ Good morning, Jane.” 

Now and then he would speak a few words ; but when he 
did the difference between them seemed more pronounced 
than ever. For by this time Walter Bellamy had to be very 
excited or angry to drop into the dialect, and his mincing 
English seemed like the splash of cold water flung into her 
face. 

She was very proud was little Jane. She would not go 
swinging up and down the streets in the evenings arm-in- 
arm with the other mill girls, dressed in her best clothes and 
laughing loudly to attract his attention: would not try the 
plan of flaunting another admirer in his face: would not 
even attempt to change her speech or manner or dress. 

She was right in her right place, as she told herself ; a 
place which was — properly speaking — Walter Bellamy’s 
as much as it was hers. If he wanted her he must come to 
her: she was not going to demean herself by climbing up, 
hanging on to his coat-tails. 

She grew a little thinner and paler, but she did not really 
fret. Walter was a foolish, spoilt child. She admired him 
as much as ever for his cleverness and his good looks, but 
she still saw through him. After all — though she loved 
him — the loss of his friendship hurt her more than any- 

142 


BELLAMY 


143 

thing else. She would not have married him then, even if 
he had asked her, for she recognised him as green fruit. 

There were some men that “ set ” long before they were 
Walter’s age. With far less in them they were yet mature: 
as they were then they always would be. But there was no 
knowing what Walter would develop into. He was like a 
rocket still going up, and it was impossible to say where 
he would drop. 

After a while, however, she began to grow really uneasy. 
But for his sake, not for her own; whatever happened to 
Wally he would end by needing her. 

By now he had dropped Thompson, who was a steady 
young fellow, and was once more hand and glove with Bertie 
Higgins, who had returned to Edge, weedier and more dissi- 
pated than ever. Out of business hours they were always 
together with a trail of other young men after them, mostly 
mill-owners’ sons. For by now Bellamy had completely 
lost touch with his own class ; and reigned as a king among 
these young sprigs, hung between town and county. 

He had started a small run-about car; which he bought 
second-hand, through Thompson, declaring that it saved its 
price over and over again in train fares. And likely enough 
it did, but still it was not the sort of thing for a man in his 
position. 

People began to talk: every one in Edge knew what his 
salary was, and shrewdly conjectured the amount he gained 
from commission. It seemed as if he was always in the 
public eye; while he was spending money recklessly: for 
Walter Bellamy did not work to save, but to taste some of 
the joys of life before it was too late. 

But that was not all : parallel with these tales of his prodi- 
gality ran talk of trouble at “ Morrison’s ” — of large losses 
of stock — voiced aloud, furiously, by hands who had been 
searched on leaving the mill. 

Thefts were bound to occur. Some of the workers, quite 
honestly, felt that they had a right to certain pickings in the 
way of ties and scarfs, while the losses in raw material were 
immense : for careless, or dishonest workers would cut away 
tangled silk recklessly rather than take the trouble to un- 
ravel it, cramming their stockings and the breasts of their 
gowns and corsets full, so that they might get away from 


BELLAMY 


144 

the mill without their extravagance being discovered and 
counted against them. 

But more than this was going on. The depredations were 
becoming wholesale, and it was difficult to say where they 
began or how they would end. 

Ever since the inauguration of the firm there had been a 
privilege, accorded to the heads of departments, of selling 
certain of the manufactured articles. 

It was a pernicious custom, unfair to the wholesale dealers 
and provocative to every sort of dishonesty, but once started 
it was difficult to put a stop to it. 

Walter possessed this privilege — having certain sums de- 
ducted from his pay each week and taking it out in stock 
instead — while Bertie Higgins claimed the same right. * 

One of Jane's younger sisters was a fringer at Morri- 
son’s, and she brought home tales of the uneasiness which 
prevailed. Indignantly declaring that it was a “ shame ” 
that they should be so put upon ; that it was all a new trick 
of Higgins’ to torment them. 

One day the two girls were going up the town together 
when the younger caught hold of her sister’s arm. 

“ Look there — look ’ee now, Jinny, at that there George 
Higginbottom. Look a’ the tie as ’ee’s' wearin’,” she cried 
excitedly. 

It happened to be Thursday, early closing day, and the 
youth indicated, a grocer’s assistant, was lounging about at 
the corner of the street with a group of other young fellows. 

“ I dwarn’t see naught in that,” remarked Jane indiffer- 
ently. 

“ Wait till we gets past ’un, an’ I’ll tell yer,” answered 
the other girl; pulled her on a pace or so by the arm, then 
burst out with it. The tie George Higginbottom was wear- 
ing was of a new pattern that had just been made at Morri- 
son’s, and not yet put upon the market — was not even in 
the hands of the travellers ; for the firm had wished to hold 
it back till the autumn, then spring it, as something quite 
new, upon the public. 

Now, among many other things, numbers of ties of this 
new pattern had begun to disappear. There had been a 
great disturbance about it, and only that day Higgins had 
threatened several of the girls with dismissal; told the 


BELLAMY 


H5 

others that he would cut the wages of all the knitters and 
fringers till the loss was made good. 

“ Cussin’ and swearin’ as though we was dirt. As though 
we’d aught ter do with it. Why, the ties ain’t so much as 
counted till after they’re out o’ our hands ! ” 

“If you could find who ’un was as sold that ’un ter young 
George Higginbottom, yer’d be nearin’ the truth,” said Jane. 

“ Yer right there ; I’ll go an’ ask ’un, danged if I won’t ! ” 
cried the young girl, her eyes sparkling ; and had half turned 
to go when, with a sudden qualm of fear — which she could 
not have explained — Jane caught at her arm. 

“ Don’t thee go, my dear ; don’t thee go.” 

“ But why not ? Why should things be blamed on us as 
we’ve never done ? ” answered Lottie sullenly. 

“ Don’t thee go — getting theesen mixed up in such 
things,” entreated Jane; her whole being seeming to hang 
on getting Lottie away, on preventing her from questioning 
the callow-looking youth in the bright new neck-wear, of 
which she seemed to have some curious subconscious knowl- 
edge which she could not place. Had she really seen such 
a tie once before, or had she only dreamt it? 

She could not say. But still the feeling held: that in 
some way the whole affair was connected with her, was 
heavy with danger and trouble, against which, by rights, she 
ought to be up and doing, something — though what she 
could not tell. 

Late that same evening she was sitting up helping Lottie 
to finish a new dress which she was making. 

It was a hot summer’s night, close and thundery. The 
girls’ needles stuck to their fingers. It seemed as if they 
would never come to an end, with all the tiresome finishing 
off ; and yet there was not enough to be worth leaving over 
for another day. 

At last it was all done ; and letting her elder sister gather 
up the scraps, Lottie moved — yawning and stretching — 
to the window, and was leaning out — sniffing up the night 
air, and fanning her hot face with a handkerchief — when 
the sound of footsteps came up the narrow, deserted street. 

A regular tramp, tramp; mingled with a lighter step in 
creaking boots. 

Filled with that sort of curiosity which comes so easily to 


BELLAMY 


146 

an empty mind, the young girl craned out of the window — 
which was low and flush with the street — wondering who 
it could be that was so late abroad: in boots, too, and not 
in clogs! 

Suddenly she drew back, her face flaming with excite- 
ment as she recognised the sound of a heavy, orderly foot- 
step. They were coming right by the house : would pass so 
close that she could, if she so pleased, put out her hand and 
touch them. Two policemen with a third man between 
them. 

In a place as small as Edge any matter connected with 
the police is far more thrilling than the death of kings. 

“ It’s coppers an* a fellow ! ” she whispered in a shrill 
aside to Jane. Then drew back a little and pulled the cur- 
tain round her so that she could observe without being 
observed. “ Mind, Jenny, they’ll see you.” 

But Jane did not appear to notice what was said. She 
was standing upright by the table — one hand filled with 
scraps of blue cotton stuff, the other grasping her scissors 
and thimble — staring straight in front of her at the side 
of the room, not out of the window, waiting. For she felt 
convinced that the thing which had been going to happen 
all that afternoon and evening was upon her, and went stiff 
and cold with fear. Though even then she did not know 
what it was that she so dreaded. 

The steps came nearer and nearer and finally passed the 
window. Lottie gave a gasp of amazement. 

“ Sakes ! ” she said ; “ why, if it ain’t that there George 
Higginbottom.” 

Suddenly Jane began to laugh. Whatever she had ex- 
pected it was not this. Never had anybody, or anything, 
seemed so ludicrous as did the thought of that sheepish, 
red-faced George Higginbottom at this particular moment; 
and she laughed till she was obliged to lean against the 
dresser, holding both sides with her hands, while the tears 
ran down her face. 

Lottie was surprised. She had never seen her quiet, 
capable sister give way in such a fashion before. 

“ Well, I never ! I can’t see what call yer have ter laugh 
like that,” she said huffily, as if fearful that the joke might 
be against her. “ Supposin’ the young fellow is in trouble.” 


BELLAMY 


147 


“ Oh, I don’t know,” gasped Jane, pulling herself to- 
gether ; “ Oi reckon it’s only drink, an’ it seems kinder queer 
fur that nesh Georgie ter want two policemen ter hold him 
drunk, when he’d eat out o’ their hand sober.” 

“ But they wasn’t holdin’ him. He was walking along 
cool as cool, talkin’ away. I tell yer what, Jane,” Lottie 
frowned and nodded, her young face heavy with impor- 
tance; ‘‘it’s about that there tie. You mark my words, 
’ee’s goin’ ter blab. Whoever it was as sold that there tie 
ter young George Higginbottom ’ull be sorry as ever he 
done it.” 

Suddenly Jane dropped to her knees and began picking 
up pins and scraps of thread from the floor. 

“ You get off ter bed, Lottie Irwin,” she commanded 
sharply ; “ or there’ll be no wakin’ yer to-morrow come 
mornin’.” 

‘‘But don’t yer think ?” 

“ No, I don’t ; an’ if I did I’d not be click-clackin’ my 
tongue over other folks’ affairs,” interrupted Jane sharply. 
And with an offended shrug the girl turned and left the 
kitchen; while her elder sister sat back on her heels, her 
white lips drawn tightly together. 

After all the trouble might be in a remote way connected 
with young Higginbottom. Anyhow, for some reason or 
other, Lottie’s last words had seemed to bring it all back 
again. 

Jane folded up the completed dress, gathered her sewing 
materials together and thrust them into a drawer ; straight- 
ened the room, set the tea-things ready for the early morn- 
ing and went slowly upstairs ; still with that look of painful 
striving on her usually serene face. For a lost thought is 
like anything else that is lost ; it is impossible really to rest 
until it has been found. 

True, she dropped asleep very soon after she was in bed ; 
but she had odd dreams of the blue cotton dress that she 
and Lottie had been busy over, and which in her sleep she 
could not get right — having cut both sleeves for one arm ; 
while it was so short it was right up round Lottie’s neck; 
was scarcely a dress at all — was in reality a tie. Though 
after all it did not matter, for it was George Higginbottom 
that was wearing it and not her sister. 


BELLAMY 


148 

Jane woke at this; and then dropped asleep again to find 
herself tangled up in much the same dreams of a blue cotton 
frock, and the young grocer’s assistant and his tie. But 
now he was knotting it round some one else’s neck outside 
the little corner house, above the cattle market, where Wal- 
ter Bellamy used to live. 

Then — quite suddenly — it was not a tie at all, but a 
rope. And how could she have so mistaken the man who 
held it? For it was Higgins himself, and he had one end 
of it in both hands and was pulling with all his might. 

At this it seemed to Jane that she gave a great cry and 
started to run towards them. And in doing so she tripped 
over the hem of her dress — r which, after all, was not her 
dress, but the blue cotton frock, that had resumed some- 
thing of its normal proportions — and was falling down 
and down, and down to an unutterable depth. 

“ Jane, Jane! what is it? Jane! ” cried a far-away voice, 
which grew gradually nearer; till Jane awoke, with a sick- 
ening jerk, to find that her youngest sister Clara, who slept 
with her, was shaking her violently. 

“Lor! Jane, whatever made yer squawl out like that? 
You’ve made me go cold all over.” 

“ Sorry, Clary, it was only a dream ; go ter sleep, there’s 
a dear,” said Jane. And lay motionless till her companion’s 
steady breathing told her she was once more asleep. 

Then very cautiously, she slid out of bed; partially 
dressed, as well as she could in the half-dark room, gath- 
ered the rest of her clothing under her arm and opening the 
door, slipped noiselessly down the stairs. 

For suddenly — at the touch of Clara’s hands, at the 
sound of her voice, calling her back out of the bottomless 
depths through which she was falling — Jane had remem- 
bered. 

Only the week before she had been up to see Walter’s 
mother, at a time when she knew that he was absent; for 
by now the chasm between them was so wide that she shrank 
from meeting him. 

She had found Mrs. Bellamy up in her son’s room, “ turn- 
ing it out ” with the assistance of the new servant — which 
meant that the mistress was on her knees washing the floor 
— while the maid flicked airily about with a duster. 


BELLAMY 


149 


The big table in the middle of the room, where the model 
of the improved spooler once stood, had been piled up with 
ties, scarfs, and socks, even knitted coats — roughly tied 
together with string — which at the first glance Jane’s prac- 
tical eyes told her were not the regular travellers’ show- 
stock. 

Mrs. Bellamy, sitting back on her heels, wringing out her 
floorcloth, followed the girl’s glance. 

“ The whole place is mucked up with the stuff that there 
Bertie Higgins brings up here; he’d a great long cricketing 
bag full on it t’other day — came along all rigged up in 
flannels an’ all, as tho’ he was goin’ ter a game. Oi tell my 
Wally as he’ll be gettin’ ’im inter trouble if he ain’t careful. 
But Oi moight as well talk ter the air ! Look at ’em there ! 
In the teens o’ scarfs an’ such like.” 

Jane had picked up a tie, and was drawing it absent- 
mindedly through her fingers. At the time she did not real- 
ise that she was noticing it in any special way: could not 
have described it, if she had been asked. But for all that 
the pattern and colouring must have engraved itself on her 
subconscious mind. 

“ It seems an awful lot,” she said ; “ but I suppose as both 
Wally and Bertie Higgins has the right ter sell.” 

“ Well, it beats me how they can pay fur all that stuff 
an’ yet have the spindin’-money as they do, ter go rocketing 
all over the place wid. Oi wounna be surprised if trouble 
came on it. It ’ud be loike moy luck. Some people do 
seem born ter trouble as the sparks flies up’ards; an’ Oi 
ought ter know, seeing as things seem ter be alius agin me, 
though what Oi’ve done ter deserve it, the Lord only knows. 
It’s no good me sayin’ nothin’, Oi ain’t nobody, an’ only 
get sneeped fur moy pains. But that there young Bertie 
Higgins ain’t leading my Wally into no good wid ’is flash 
ways.” 

“ It’s more likely as Wally is leading Bertie,” answered 
Jane musingly. Then added, “ Why don’t you let Lizzie do 
the scrubbing? No wonder yer rheumatiky, alius on them 
damp floors.” 

But Mrs. Bellamy had taken no notice of the latter part 
of Jane’s speech. 

“ Oh, it’s my Wally, is it? Oi must say, Miss Irwin, as 


150 


BELLAMY 


it ill beseems yer ter go talkin’ slightin’ loike o’ moy Wally. 
When Oi was a young wench, folk ’ad more pride than ter 
show off so ’acause a young feller had raised ’imself above 
em. 

How much can one remember in the moment of waking? 
It seemed to Jane as if — in the second which was all that 
could have elapsed between being raised from the pit into 
which she was falling and feeling Clara’s hand on her shoul- 
der — she must have lived again through the whole of the 
little scene with Walter Bellamy’s mother: while every 
thread of the tie, which she had been drawing through her 
fingers, pattern and colour, were as distinct as though she 
had it beneath her eyes: precisely similar to that which she 
had seen young Higginbottom wearing only the night before. 

Down in the kitchen she fumbled for matches, her heart 
in her mouth as she knocked over a cup. For the need of 
secrecy was strong upon her : it seemed as if the quiet night 
had its fingers on its lip, whispering “ hush ” ; as if, should 
her sister awake, the whole world must know what had 
happened. 

Somehow or other she got into her clothes; glanced at 
her clogs, then decided on shoes as being quieter; and tak- 
ing them out of the cupboard, tied them on with quick 
decided fingers. For even in a case of life or death Jane 
Irwin could not have gone through the streets of Edge with 
laces unloosed ; while her little white collar was evenly 
fastened, her hair smooth under her hat, as she slipped into 
her waterproof, opened the front door with infinite care — 
and emerged into the street. 

If things were bad they could only be made worse, and 
more conspicuously worse, by going about “ all slumikin ” ; 
while she felt that, in some obscure way her mind was 
braced up with her shoe-strings ; her thoughts smoothed out 
with her fine silvery hair. 


CHAPTER XXV 


I T was half-past three. In the outer world the dawn 
was already breaking in a grey mist, which transmuted 
the houses to castles, the mills to towering worlds. 

The streets were quite empty. There was not a sound 
anywhere save the occasional jarring crow of some cock in 
a distant farmyard; while it was all so peaceful, so apart 
from life, that it seemed impossible that anything real could 
ever happen again. As if any actors who reappeared upon 
the stage must be mere ghosts of a past activity. 

It was cold, too ; and Jane shivered as she cut across the 
market-place — down which a small chill wind was sweep- 
ing — and so up to South Bank and Walter Bellamy’s house. 

Arrived there she was in terror of waking Mrs. Bellamy 
— of turning on the tap of never-failing recrimination and 
complaint — and lifting a handful of fine gravel from the 
side of the path she threw it at Walter’s half-open window, 
with so sure an aim that some of it hit the glass, while the 
rest fell into the room. 

She knew that he was a light sleeper — for it had always 
been his boast that he only shut one eye at a time — and 
waited for his head to appear, wondered if he might be 
away. Then — suddenly recognising the possibility of a 
sore conscience — spoke his name in a shrill whisper. 

The next moment he was half out of the window. 
“ Jane ! Jane ! — Why, Jane ? ” 

There was something fatuous in his voice, as Jane recog- 
nised, for his conquests had been easy and many. 

“ Oh, yer great fool — come down ! Come down an’ 
make sharp about it, Walter Bellamy.” 

“ What, is anything wrong? ” he asked in a changed tone. 
“ That’s fur yer ter say,” she snapped, and waited while 
she saw a light flash out in his room, in an agony of fear, 
lest some one should pass and see her. But in less than 

151 


152 


BELLAMY 


three minutes he had slipped coat and trousers over his 
sleeping-suit, was downstairs and had opened the door. 

“What is it? Jane, Jane, all our lovers’ meetings seem 
to start at dawn.” 

“ Let me in — Oi’ll go ter front parlour. An’ put out 
light, it’ull not be needed.” She spoke sharply, for his 
nonsense jarred; though she admired it, knowing that he 
must have plenty on his mind to make him anxious. 

“ ‘ Journeys end in lovers’ meeting,’ ” hummed Walter 
Bellamy as he followed her. “ Jane, was that economy, or 
prudence — the candle, I mean ? ” His eyes were dancing. 
He knew as well as Jane did that she had come on no fond 
mission; but he recognised that she was burdened with 
some difficulty, if not danger, and the thought quickened 
his blood. 

The snuffing of the candle showed that the day was really 
beginning. Soon the sun would be risen; staring down 
upon them with its bold eyes, drawing the gaze of the outer 
world. Even in the parlour Jane could see Bellamy’s face, 
shadowy white, detached from his dark body, but still plain 
enough. 

“ Hearken here, Wally,” she took off her hat as she spoke 
and ran her fingers through her hair; for her head was 
throbbing, and she still felt heavy, half in a dream. “ It’s 
’aben that there stuff as you’ve been selling.” 

.“But, Jane! My pretty, plain Jane!” Walter was at 
his old boyish trick of swinging backwards and forwards, 
heels and toes, and she could have clouted him for it. 
“ You’ve never raised me from my slumbers to tell me that? 
I’ve a right to sell.” 

“ Sell, yes ! A bit here and there ; but the place is full 
up on it.” 

“ It’s mostly young Higgins’.” 

“ But you have it here — some of it is yourn, an’ the 
question is — Is it paid for? Is it stuff as you’ve a right 
ter have ? ” 

“ My dear Jane ” 

“ No, it isn’t ! It isn’t ” she struck her hands to- 

gether in her impatience and exasperation. “ An’ now what’s 
cornin’? Do yer know what’s cornin’? Tell me that, Wal- 
ter Bellamy.” 


BELLAMY 153 

“ Jane, you’re too pretty to trouble your head about things 
of this sort — four in the morning, too. Shocking ! ” 

He glanced at the clock on the mantel-shelf, smiled, then 
yawned, stretching prodigiously; though his bright eyes 
were free from sleep. 

“ Is it paid for? ” Jane stamped. With the greatest good- 
will she could have smacked the smile from his face. 

“ It will be — next Friday. Jane, is it a bet?” 

“ Next Friday! An’ it’s Friday ter-morrow, no, ter-day ; 

an’ you ” suddenly she veered, her voice broken with 

feeling. “ Wally, Wally, how could you have been so mad? 
Ter sell it in Edge — ter that there George Higginbottom ? ” 

Walter did not question her as to her meaning; and she 
saw that — at the very mention of the name — his mind had 
leapt forward to much of what he knew; but still he 
laughed. There was this in Wally, for all his faults he 
never lacked courage. “It was only one tie, just one! 
Poor Georgie Porgie was goin’ a courtin’ — the girls 
wouldn’t kiss him without something to set him off. An’ 
the whole o’ my apple-cart upset! But don’t you worry, 
Jane, it’s all right — ’pon my soul it’s all right.” 

“ Is it all right? Very well, Walter Bellamy; then Oi’ll 
leave yer to yersen an’ yer all right.” 

She was turning when Walter Bellamy caught at her 
arm. “ Tell me, Jane. Jane, don’t be cross.” 

“ Cross ! ” The word sounded so ridiculous, so inade- 
quate to all she felt. 

“ Well, mad. Tell me — what’s the trouble? ” 

“ The trouble’s this. That that there George was wearin’ 
the tie as you sold ’im, yesterday for all the world ter see. 
A pattern as wasn’t yet out — an’ all o’ Edge talkin’ on it.” 

“ Let ’em talk ! ” Walter’s voice was airy. 

“Yes, let ’em talk! An’ let George Higginbottom talk 
up police station, an’ the two coppers as he was strollin’ 
with, near twelve o’clock last night.” 

“ Oh ! ” Walter’s expression had changed. For a mo- 
ment he stared at Jane. Then walked to the window and 
pulled down the blind with a sharp jerk: turned round: 
stared again, his hands deep in his pockets; and, finally, 
gave a long-drawn whistle. 

“ What a damned blunder ! I didn’t even sell it, I gave 


BELLAMY 


154 

it to him. I never sell to private people. I’m not such a 
fool, Jane ; ” his tone was almost hurt. “ I take all the stuff 
to Birmingham or Manchester. But that silly goat! We 
were both at the Swimming Club the other night when Jie 
lost his tie — left it behind. He was going to see his girl. 
We walked back together and I said I’d give him one, ran 
up in the dark and snatched the first I put my hand on.” 

“ Well?” 

“ Well, there it is.” Suddenly he laughed quite naturally. 
“ George Higginbottom ! La ! to think of our Georgie as a 
means to the ends of Justice. Jane, my Jane, it seems to 
me that the fat’s pretty well in the fire.” 

“ You’d better tell me, seem’ I know what I do. How 
much ? ” 

“Well, that cussed young ass, Higgins, lost his head; 
kept on bringing in stuff, more than I knew what to do 
with ” 

“ But you, yoursen? ” 

“ Oh, I’m in it, up to the chin. I’d meant to take it up 
to Manchester last week, and got blocked. But I’ll go to- 
morrow — to-day, I mean. We’ll have it settled up by 
next pay-day; All serene, Jane.” 

“ An’ what about the new ties, as they didn’t want out ? ” 

“ What’s the good o’ offering stale stock ; things that 
every one has ? ” Walter’s voice showed a mild reasona- 
bleness. 

“ But shall yer pay for them? ” 

“Am I likely to be such a fool? We’ll pay for the rest 
— most of it.” 

“ It’s thieving! Shame on yer, Walter Bellamy ! ” 

There was the same horror in Jane’s voice as there had 
been years before, when she had told him that he would 
certainly go to Hell. She had forgiven him so much, ad- 
mired him in spite of so many flaming follies : but here was 
nothing more or less than a sordid crime, which it was past 
even Walter Bellamy’s power to wing with glory. 

“ Jane, you don’t know,” — his tone was defiant, for he 
realised her disapproval — “ it’s business. Besides, what 
did they take from me? The worth of hundreds and thou- 
sands of such things. And more: my belief in myself, my 
pride, my future. What does the Bible say ? 4 An eye for 


BELLAMY 155 

an eye, and a tooth for a tooth/ By God ! if I pulled every 
tooth they had, they’d still be in my debt.” 

“ All that’s past. It may be sense, may be Bible truth ; 
but it’s not law. Folks canna’ steal a’cause other folks has 
stolen from ’em. It’s prison if yer don’t get away from 
here — prison ! ” 

Suddenly she realised what it would mean : the degrada- 
tion, the unutterable torment of prison to a man of Bel- 
lamy’s nature. “ Shut up in a little cell, with scarce room 
ter turn in ; all the world goin’ on, an’ you idle an’ forgotten 
there,” she said. 

This struck home and she saw him wince. But the next 
moment he gave an odd, high laugh and Jane realised him 
as more excited than frightened; for any danger, even the 
sordid danger of prison, was a stimulant to Walter Bellamy. 

“ I suppose you’re right. I suppose I’d better go — make 
myself scarce — for a bit anyway.” 

“You must go! Now, now, at once, Wally. It’s day 
now ” 

She was right, for even through the blind the sun was 
glinting on the brass candlesticks upon the mantel-shelf, 
“ With the day they’ll be movin’ ! ” 

“ I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll get out the car, and take all 
the stuff I have up to Manchester. Stop there a night — 
you can send a wire; I’ll stay at the ‘ Waverley.’ Address 
it in another name — Clarke — William Clarke — > that’ull 
do ; ” his mind worked like lightning. “ Even if it’s found 
out they can’t do much. Bertie’s too deep in it. It may 
be nothing — or blow over. Only let me know what hap- 
pens. I’ll go up and dress, then fetch the car and bring it 
round for the stuff ; if you’ll get it down ready for me.” 

“ No, that I’ll not.” 

Walter shrugged his shoulders — more with an air of 
Paris than of Edge. “ Then I’ll get it myself.” 

“ Yer ’ll not do that, neither ; yer’ll go without the stuff or 
yer’ll not go at all.” 

“ But it’s what I’m going for.” 

“ What call is there te loy — ter me ? Ter me ! Yer goin’ 
a’cause if yer don’t go yer’ll be in gaol ter-night — yer great 
fool, yer. Do yer think that Oi don’t know yer thruff an’ 
thruff.” 


BELLAMY 


156 

t( Perhaps I’d better leave it, it’ud be safer/’ Walter 
spoke thoughtfully, his head raised a little to one side to 
catch the sound of a footstep far away up the street. 

Jane heard it too. Suddenly her anger was gone ; all she 
wanted was to save this old playfellow of hers, to get him 
away out of danger. “ There’s a coat an’ cap hangin’ in 
the hall. Dwarn’t go up ter dress, slip out o’ back o’ house, 
an’ down alley way ter Brook Street,” — the little car was 
in a yard there as she knew. “ Cum back along past the 
end, an’ Oi’ll be there with yer bag. Oh, Wally, Wally, 
yer maun go, me dear luv, yer maun go, Wally, yer fool yer ! 
Can’t yer get a move on yer, yer maun go. Don’t yer hear 
sum’un is cornin’ down the street ? Go, oh, go ! ” 

For a moment Walter hesitated, swinging backwards and 
forwards biting his lips; his head on one side, while he 
listened. The footsteps drew nearer. The early riser, 
whoever he might be wore boots, not clogs, and he turned, 
still with no particular appearance of hurrying. 

“ All right — I’ll be close on ten minutes.” He was in 
the hall by now, one arm into the sleeve of his overcoat; 
still whispering for fear of Mrs. Bellamy. “ There’s some 
money in a wallet on the chest of drawers, an’ my bag’s 
under my bed, the shirt an’ things I’ve been wearing on a 
chair at the side — don’t forget my studs.” The corner of 
Walter’s mouth lifted; he was pleased with himself. Few 
men would have been cool enough to remember such a de- 
tail at such a time. 

Half-way upstairs Jane heard the back-door close softly ; 
while next moment the steps, which they had both heard, 
passed harmlessly by the front of the house. 

With methodical haste Jane packed the fresh suit, clean 
linen and boots at the bottom of the bag; then the clothes 
Walter had been wearing — collar, tie and boots, for he 
had gone out in his slippers. He could stop anywhere when 
he got clear of the town and dress by the roadside. 

It did not take long — she gave a glance at the piled-up 
table. No, it would not do to run any risks, she must come 
back and see to those things later, she thought. And rais- 
ing the bag, she tucked the wallet under one arm; then 
slipped noiselessly downstairs and out of the back-door, not 
five minutes after Walter. 


BELLAMY 


157 

It seemed as if he would never come. The town was 
beginning to awake, and several windows and doors were 
thrown open as she waited at the alley-way leading into 
Brook Street; while tousled heads were thrust forth to 
sample the day. 

At last there was the sound of a distant throb, and the 
familiar little car backed out of the yard gate; turned and 
ran smoothly down the hill towards her. 

Walter drew up, laughing. “ What a morning for a 
drive! What a lark! You’d better come. Jane, let’s 
elope ! ” 

But without a word Jane thrust the wallet into the niche 
between the two seats, and threw in the bag: panting as 
though she had been running, instead of standing there 
shivering with impatience; while at the same moment she 
glanced up the long street, and saw that a man had turned 
in at the top of it ; was coming towards them. 

“ Quick, quick ! Wally — go ! ” she was behind the car, 
as though she would have pushed it forward. 

With a sudden movement Bellamy leant back; flung his 
free arm round her neck and kissed her. 

“Good-bye, Jane. Good little Jane! fine little pal!” he 
said, and started the car. Looked back and waved one 
hand, laughing, his whole face aglow with excitement. 

“ By Jove, but it is a lark! ” he cried, and was off down 
the road, and round the corner at the dip of the hill. 

Looking up, Jane saw that the man was running, waving 
his arm ; and pulling up her skirts almost to her knees, she 
bolted along the alley-way; turned up some steps in the 
middle, fled through a court, up more steps, down a quiet 
side-street and once more in at the back of Walter Bel- 
lamy’s house. 


CHAPTER XXVI 



HE door was open and Mrs. Bellamy was standing 


in the back kitchen, with her skirt fastened on over 


JL her nightgown, by which familiar trick the latter is 
forced into the part of a blouse. 

“ Whatever’s come ” 

“ Light a fire under the copper — there’s a good soul. 
Quick, quick ! ” 

“Well, Oi never! What’s all th’ moither ? 

Where’s Wally? Not yet gone six, an’ on an empty 
stomach an’ all it’s enuff ” 

“Oh!” With a sharp cry of exasperation, Jane flung 
round and ran upstairs ; the feeling strong upon her that 
more things were about to happen and that quickly. As 
she ran she tripped over her skirt. It all seemed part of 
her dream, but though her head was still mazed her actions 
were decisive enough: as if she was acting apart from her 
own will and thought. 

Up in Walter’s room she swept as many of the silken 
articles as she could carry from the tables into her skirt, and 
staggered downstairs with them ; dropped them on the floor 
in front of the copper, and pushing aside Mrs. Bellamy — 
who had done nothing — thrust them in beneath it. 

“ Sakes alive! Whatever ” But Jane took no no- 

tice ; she had caught up the matches and was looking round 
her enquiringly. 

“ Where’s the paraffine ? ” 

“ In the wash’us, if yer goin’ ter light that there ” 

But Jane had vanished into the yard. 

A moment she reappeared with the tin of paraffine — 
holding back her skirts from it with a careful hand. And 
having swished a liberal quantity forward among the deli- 
cately tinted silk, she lit a match, threw it in upon it, then 
drew back, as a wide ribband of blackish flame sprang out 
into the kitchen. 

“Ye’ll ’ave the ’ouse on fire,” remarked Mrs. Bellamy 


158 


BELLAMY 


159 

with triumphant conviction. But Jane did not reply, she 
was leaning down peering under the copper with frowning 
brow. The flame flickered and died down; for a moment 
it seemed that it was out. Then it caught the silk and 
began to burn, faintly but steadily; and drawing herself 
upright, with a long breath of relief, she turned towards the 
stairs, and mounted them, more slowly, for by now she had 
become conscious of an immense fatigue. 

She was at the top again, with another skirt full, when 
the knock at the door — for which she had been all on edge, 
which she knew so well was coming — echoed through the 
house. 

It was no use going down, for she would only meet the 
newcomers in the hall. And, in desperation, she began to 
thrust the remainder of the silk goods under the mattress 
of Walter’s bed. But even that was no use — was all 
futile as the dream had been — for one of the two men, who 
were at the door, came straight upstairs and caught her in 
the act. 

The only comfort was that Walter Bellamy had got away 
just in time. 

But even that was no use in the end. For the man who 
had come running down Brook Street, had gone back di- 
rectly Walter disappeared round the corner — without trou- 
bling himself in the very least about Jane — and getting an- 
other motor had given chase; questioning and following 
till he caught up his man just outside Manchester. Even 
then he would not have got him, had not Bellamy stopped 
his car to finish dressing, and experienced some trouble 
with the exact arrangement of his necktie. 

That evening he was brought back to Edge. And that 
one night he slept in prison. 

There is a little exercise yard — barred, both round and 
above like a cage — at the back of the police cells in Edge ; 
while looking down — right into it as into a bear pit — 
stands one of the smaller mills. 

Some of the hands saw Bellamy walking there next morn- 
ing. And one of the men threw him down a couple of cig- 
arettes and a box of matches; and another a newspaper; 
while the girls leant out and waved and kissed their hands. 
For Walter Bellamy was theirs and of them ; and the Edge 


i6o 


BELLAMY 


people are above everything loyal to their own ; while, after 
all, his crime was only against “ Morrison’s,” the most hated 
power in the place. Besides was he not the “ loveliest boy 
in all the town ” ? Or so the mill girls said. 

Jane, despite her manifest complicity, was not put in 
prison; though she was warned to remain indoors at her 
own home, while a policeman kept watch at the corner of 
the street, looking the other way in an unobtrusive sort of 
fashion. For who could be rude or unkind to Jane; unless 
it was the man she loved — which is the way of the world. 

But indeed everybody seemed to be trying to hush it all up, 
and not to hurt anybody’s feelings, provoke any sort of out- 
burst. For it was as Walter Bellamy had predicted. Ber- 
tie Higgins was too deep in it. The deeper enquiries went 
the further was he found to be involved. 

If so much had been known earlier Bellamy would have 
been allowed to depart in peace. Now all that the authori- 
ties wanted was to get rid of him as quietly as possible : for 
Higgins had been one of the original partners in the firm, 
was one of the largest shareholders, besides being an inval- 
uable manager. It would never do to make this scandal — 
the second which had gathered round his son’s name — pub- 
lic property. 

There was a sort of trial next day, in which all the mag- 
istrates were mill-owners; and in which the whole en- 
deavour seemed to be to check Walter Bellamy’s flaming 
oratory; his story of the patent spooler, the very mention 
of young Higgins’ name; while somehow — through it all, 
do what they might — both Higgins and Joyce were made to 
feel that they — and not the prisoner, with his assured, 
though perfectly courteous manner — were the real cul- 
prits. 

After all it was more a consultation than a trial : not even 
held in the court house, but in the magistrates’ private room. 
For it had been decided, before Walter was brought in, that 
there was to be no prosecution. It would not do ; there was, 
as they all felt, too much involved. 

The only stipulation made, and this was adhered to, was 
that Walter Bellamy should leave Edge — immediately ; in- 
deed that very day — and return no more. 

Mrs. Bellamy washed the floor with herself and her tears 


BELLAMY 


161 


when Walter went back to her : taking the side streets, for 
once desiring to pass unseen. For, despite all his bravado, 
the thought of those girls blowing kisses down on him 
through the overhead bars of the police-court yard — the 
memory of that night in the dreary little cell — had bitten 
deep. 

Once more Jane packed for him; carefully and method- 
ically, while he ate his dinner. Then walked down the 
street to the station with him, stiff with pride and suffering 
in the sight of all Edge : for the people were turning out of 
the mills, just when it was the time for Walter to catch the 
last London train. 

For anyhow he had gained this much from his disgrace — 
which, to his mind, lay in the fact that “ Morrison’s ” had, 
even then, got far more out of him than ever he got out of 
it — he was at last going to London. 

Still some feeling, perhaps the truest emotion which he 
had ever experienced, caused Bellamy to refrain from kiss- 
ing Jane this time; even buoyed up — as he was — by the 
laughing, half-admiring crowds upon the platform. 

But at the last moment, as he leant out of the window, 
she put up one hand and laid it with a little sob against his 
cheek : — 

" God bless thee, Wally. Wally, yer great fool. An’ 
taeke care o’ yersen, an’ write an’ let us know.” 

“ An’ don’t quite forget me, Jane,” he shouted the words 
down the platform, and was out of hearing before she could 
reply. But he saw her smile and shake her fair head: and 
anyhow he knew that she would not forget. 

She was not that sort, staunch little Jane! Suddenly it 
dawned upon Walter that they were as good as engaged. 
Anyhow she would be his wife some day, when things had 
straightened themselves out a little. She was such a brick ; 
if only he could teach her to speak as well as she looked. 

“ I wonder what you can see in that there Walter,” re- 
marked Lottie that evening, very young, and hard as all 
youth is. 

But Jane — who was lying flat on her bed, in a state of 
utter lassitude — only smiled faintly. For as a matter of 
fact she wondered also, just as much as any one else 
could do. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


W HEN Walter Bellamy arrived in London he had 
something over a pound in his possession and a 
modest assortment of clothes packed by Jane, 
amongst which he found not a single tie. Jane’s one act of 
bitter protest had been the wholesale discarding of all these 
brilliant plumes : but she had packed a pork pie within the 
circle of his collars; and weeks later, when he came down 
to his last pair of socks he found a ten-shilling piece in the 
toe of one of them. 

How well she knew him, astute little Jane! They were 
ugly yellowish, brown things, which he had been forced to 
buy one day when he found himself stranded, without any 
luggage, in a tiny country town. She had realized that 
whatever might be the depths to which he sank, he would 
never wear them until the others were riddled with holes; 
so that her hardly earned gift would be discovered when it 
was most needed. 

With difficulty renouncing the glories of the “ Grand Cen- 
tral ” he found a shabby little hotel near to Euston, and 
spent the night there; his supper, bed and breakfast eating 
away all his loose change, and breaking into his solitary 
gold piece. But he did not trouble much. He was actu- 
ally in London, and for the present that was enough ; the 
infinite possibilities of it went to his head. It was like an 
elixir distilled from the blood of all who had made their 
fortunes there, and risen to fame. The people who went 
under did not concern Walter Bellamy, for he was more 
cruel and callous than most youths. But there was no de- 
nying his courage. If he did not pity others, he certainly 
never pitied himself. 

Having paid his bill and left his luggage to be called for, 
he made towards the City: the magic hub of this smoke- 
grimed seething place, the heart which pumped the blood 
through every artery. 


162 


BELLAMY 


163 

It was a cold day, with glimpses of pale sunshine and an 
east wind which cut him to the bone ; giving him a not un- 
pleasant, clean, stripping feeling, driving before it every 
scrap of paper and straw, whipping the women’s tight skirts 
so closely around them that they might as well have been 
naked, flattening itself against Bellamy’s back, pushing him 
on in front of it, like the very spirit of hustling progress; 
driving all this mass of people Citywards, booing at them 
round every corner when they attempted to turn aside. 

By constant asking Bellamy managed to thread his way 
through a tangle of streets into Holborn. Took a false 
turn and got into New Oxford Street ; then into Soho, where 
all his Gallic blood was aflame at the sound of many tongues, 
the alien sights and smells, the glances the girls gave him, 
as he strode along, his head held high, turning quickly from 
side to side, his bright eyes full of eagerness. 

He had once seen a piece of cheese under a microscope 
at the Institute ; a complete quarter-inch world of struggling 
atoms. London reminded him of it now, with all these 
pale, struggling, yet indomitable people. 

After all life was like that vulgar rhyme which declares 
that “ little fleas have smaller fleas upon their backs to bite 
’em.” Everybody was feeding upon everybody else; the 
thing was to grow so big that you did not feel the tor- 
ment. 

Despite his abstraction he somehow retrieved his way and 
found himself below St. Paul’s. It did not strike him as 
beautiful or wonderful, and he fancied it must impress peo- 
ple only by its size. What moved him far more were the 
hurrying crowds around its base, for all his being cried out 
for movement. 

Moving a little down Cannon Street he had lunch in a 
cheap restaurant, where all the food was permeated by the 
smell and taste of steam, and by a feverish sense of haste ; 
and where the waitresses threw the food at him, looking all 
the time the other way, intent always upon the next cus- 
tomer; while he listened to orders shouted down the lift 
and wondered what the scene was like in those subter- 
raneous regions, from whence — in response to a fusillade of 
orders — chops and steaks, and eggs and bowls of greasy 
soup, and slabs of fish innumerable, and smells and noises 


« 


164 BELLAMY 

— all the indecencies of food — were belched up without 
ceasing. 

Nobody took any notice of him or spoke to him ; four or 
five men at his table read their papers while they gobbled 
their food. It was more like coaling up than eating. But 
Walter liked it. It seemed to him that once one had set 
life spinning at such a pace it might whirl on for ever. 

After his meal he pushed straight on for a little, and then 
turned along Garlick Street and through a tangle of ware- 
houses down to the river. 

Already the short winter’s day was fading; fainting away 
with no hint of crimson, as though this overwhelming town 
had packed too much into it; expected too much of it: as 
though it were wearied by its combat with all the smoke 
aud turmoil; of wearing itself out over a place which was 
so evidently better served by the night. 

For some time Walter leant over the parapet and gazed 
up the river to Westminster. Then down, and saw the 
Tower Bridge open and shut, snapping its jaws over a 
steamer, which already showed gleaming headlights. An 
odd fancy took him that this London was a giant ; a sentient 
being, with the river for its gullet. That here, where he 
now stood, was its belly, into which it gulped such craft; 
inwardly digesting all that was glorious of them — the silks 
and spices, the wine and gold — to vomit them forth again : 
mere empty husks, or stuffed with such gross things as beer 
and pig-iron. 

He had an idea that he would like to live by the river, and 
moved in the direction of Westminster. But he found noth- 
ing save warehouses — which more than once drove him 
back from the water’s edge — till he passed Blackfriars, and 
came to places which might have been palaces ; ablaze with 
lights and fringed with gardens, which separated them from 
the grey street and pavement, the grey river and the wraith- 
like figures which overhung the parapet, or sat huddled 
upon the seats : like a dirty hem to a fine lady’s petticoat. 

As he reached the County Council gardens he turned up 
into the “ Adelphi.” The streets were so narrow that he 
thought the place looked cheap, though there was some- 
thing pleasing to. him in the high windows and porticos ; for 
in the old days in France, when vice was less of a profes- 


BELLAMY 165 

sion, some good blood had found its way into the Bellamy 
veins. 

Seeing several advertisements of chambers to let he rang 
and asked to see the rooms. Found them anything but 
cheap : and thereupon determined that he would make 
money, would live there. Setting his affections on the Ter- 
race itself. Giving himself three years till he should pos- 
sess a whole balconied flat there ; with that stimulating feel- 
ing of having something to fight for, which any check to his 
desires always gave him. 

By the time he reached the Strand the people were hur- 
rying westward. For the mere delight of opposing such a 
current he moved in the opposite direction and fought the 
general stream. Battled his way through the crowds wait- 
ing on the pavement and elbowed past the queue waiting 
outside the Tivoli. Finally, feeling the want of tea, he 
turned into one of Appenrodt’s restaurants which holds a 
corner position — just where the road widens in front of 
the “ Cecil ” — with an upper room looking straight along 
the street. 

Here he found a seat, right against the window, with the 
roofs of the ’buses — surging along like top-heavy galleons 

— almost on a level with his knees ; while below him the 
taxi-cabs and motors, like frigates and curvettes, cut in 
and out of the flashing stream, fringed by the surging wave 
of humanity along the pavement. 

London! It was the place where half the things of 
which he read in the papers took place. Any one of those 
men beneath him might be a millionaire or a murderer, a 
foreign potentate, a famous politician, a cracksman or com- 
pany promoter. Might have slept in prison only a couple 
of nights before, as he had done, or in a palace; or in any 
one of those painted women’s arms. 

As for the women — loitering along the pavement; hur- 
rying home from work; or sailing smoothly in their taxis 

— each a warm, compact, swiftly moving little world of its 
own — into the great court of the “ Cecil ” ; flashing past the 
beggar on the pavement, the strap-hanger on the ’bus — 
they looked so different: but really they were divided into 
two ranks. They undercut the men at their business : small 
and apparently frail, but utterly indomitable, they edged 


i66 


BELLAMY 


their way in everywhere, splitting up their industries as a 
fern will split a rock. Or they exploited men, offering their 
bodies for money or position or offspring; keeping such 
souls as they possessed coldly aloof : never quite giving 
themselves away : setting their slaves on to hunt wild beasts 
among the snow, to pluck the plumage from strange birds ; 
to dig for jewels in the bowels of the earth, all to feed their 
vanity, their lust for the rare and costly. 

The thought of women, and their insatiable greed, and 
all that they offered and all that they withheld — stimu- 
lating passion by mystery — went like wine to Bellamy's 
head. He had experience, but there was so much he still 
wanted to know. He was sorry that he had helped the 
Union to uphold the working women in Edge — though it 
had not been for their sakes that he joined the cause. But 
to these others, flushed and bejewelled, he grudged nothing: 
their trade was for, and not against him and his sex. 

After paying for his meal he went out again into the 
street, delighting in the jostling, the warm touch of other 
shoulders against him. Deterred for a moment by a cross 
current he felt some one slip a hand through his arm ; and 
turning saw that it was a girl, with a flower-like face, who 
smiled up at him meaningly. 

But, for all the stir in his veins, Bellamy’s north country 
canniness held, and he shook his head; while next moment 
the breaking of the press swept them apart. He had no 
money to spare. As it was he would have to spend another 
night at the hotel, and had it not been for his youth and 
exaltation, the morrow would have indeed loomed darkly 
before him. 

Next morning the thought of the river still drew Bel- 
lamy, and he set off towards Westminster, determined this 
time to explore westward ; to get a lodging during the morn- 
ing, to send for his things, and to settle down in earnest to 
find employment. Never for a moment did he contemplate 
failure, his penurious boyhood had taught him how very 
little it is possible to live upon — while he never doubted 
his ability to earn at least that little. 

Passing across the front of the Abbey, he moved down 
Victoria Street: then turned into Smith Street, which both 


BELLAMY 167 

disgusted and amused him. Here indeed was a fine fringe 
to the dignity of the church. 

But Vincent Square was better; and for a moment he 
thought of seeking lodgings there, in sheer relief at the con- 
trast to what he had come through. But on second thoughts 
he adhered to his decision to live, if possible, by the river 
and cut down Rochester Row. 

Once past this he found himself among the spacious ave- 
nues of the Westminster working-men’s flats: passed the 
Tate Gallery and the Barracks, and finally discovered what 
he wanted : just on the verge of the Vauxhall Bridge Road, 
facing the river and a ship-breaking yard — its gates deco- 
rated with huge wooden figure-heads, straight-featured 
women, and Titans and Neptunes, which had proudly thrust 
their way through many a storm, remnants of the bygone 
romance of sea craft — a narrow four-storied house with 
the legend “ Lodgings for Singly Gentlemen ” displayed on 
a card in one of the windows. 

Here, on the top floor, he obtained a minute room, with 
the promise of some attendance — for seven shillings a 
week : paid a week’s rent in advance, and tramped back to 
Euston, where he disbursed a shilling that his luggage might 
be forwarded. This done he lunched in Charing Cross 
Road, on a plate of hot meat — simply described as 
“ meat ” of an origin quite unknown — for fourpence, veg- 
etables twopence, bread a halfpenny and a penny to the 
waitress. Then with one and ninepence — which at that 
moment represented his entire world, in his pockets — he 
turned Citywards once more, reaching St. Paul’s before he 
realised that it was Saturday, and that the stoppage of busi- 
ness was absolute, instead of being partial — limited to the 
warehouses and better sort of offices — as it is in the north ; 
where Thursday is, for the most part, early closing day. 

It was the first real chill which had touched him since 
he arrived. Not so much because it delayed his chances 
of employment as because of the air of blank melancholy 
which it imparted to the place, as though some one — in the 
full flush of robust and noisy life — had suddenly died. 

For a moment or so Bellamy was at a loss to know what 
to do. Then remembering that there was still much to see, 
he dropped down Ludgate Hill and turned to the river, by 


i68 


BELLAMY 


Blackfriars. Once more passed his future residence; was 
stimulated afresh by the mysterious fashion in which the 
tram comes out of the depths below Charing Cross, and 
finally made for the Tate Gallery. 

Bellamy had very little artistic sense; but he worshipped 
beauty of body, and some of the statuary held him. Above 
all those of the young men : Lord Leighton’s athlete strug- 
gling with Python, Bates’ “ Hounds in Leash,” and — 
perhaps more than any — Thornycroft’s “ Teucer,” who 
roused him to a fresh desire for bodily fitness. 

He must not let himself grow “ soft.” There was not 
room in the attic for his Indian clubs — even if Jane had 
packed them — but there were always things he could do: 
lying face down on the floor and pushing himself forward to 
the extreme stretch of his arm, abdominal exercises and deep 
breathing. He would give anything to be like one of these 
fellows, and moving towards “ The Teucer ” he ran a lov- 
ing finger down his fine sinewy thigh and along his biceps; 
a liberty for which he was straightway brought to book by 
an attendant. 

“ Sorry, Sergeant,” he replied with his most charming 
smile : — “ but Oi — I happen to be studying this kind of 
thing just now, and one’s artistic feeling sort of runs away 
with one; comprennez — vous?” Bellamy tagged on the 
French as a make-weight for the slip over the personal 
pronoun, which was one of his most constant falls. But 
the next moment it was forgotten in the conjecture, as to 
whether the attendant • — who he knew was not a sergeant 
and would therefore like to be addressed as such — took 
him for an artist or a young medical student, and which he 
would prefer to be. 

Still debating this important subject he found himself in 
the room with Watts’ pictures. Glanced at “ Hope,” and 
“ Love and Life,” and other such allegories indifferently, 
as being too “ pretty-pretty ” for his taste. And was finally 
brought to an odd, and not altogether happy, pause in front 
of “ The Minotaur.” 

Afterwards this picture and “ Mammon ” were the only 
twp in the whole gallery that he could remember. “ The 
Minotaur ” got him “ in the wind ” as he said. The inar- 
ticulate, awful stirring of the spirit through the brute flesh, 


BELLAMY 


169 

the reaching forward of the soul, the immobility of the 
clumsy hoofs — all the delicacy of touch bound up beneath 
layer upon layer of horn, he could almost see the sensitive 
fingers twitch and stretch beneath it. 

It made him think of Edge and the potteries. He could 
not have said why; but for all that the simile was right. 
There was the same stirring to get loose, away from all the 
manifold layers of class distinction, repression and poverty. 
The same straining of the spirit. 

“ The Minotaur ” depressed him ; but “ Mammon ” roused 
his fighting spirit. He could go one better than that brute. 
Some one had got to be top dog, but not in that way. They 
had had enough of that sort of thing. In his kingdom 
youth at least should go free. 

He remained in the gallery till closing time. Then mov- 
ing down on to the Embankment was attracted by a whir- 
ring sound from among the workmen’s dwellings ; and turn- 
ing in that direction found the broad asphalted avenues alive 
with children on roller skates. 

Many had but one skate — tied on with a piece of string. 
These pushed themselves forward with the free foot ; swung 
it high and darted along on one leg. Then — when fresh 
impetus was needed — brought the other again to the 
ground, with a sharp push, and so on: singly, coupled, or 
clinging in solidly moving groups, laughing and shouting. 

Other children — more fortunate — or less generous in 
sharing their pleasures — had two skates, with the full com- 
plement of straps, and swung along at a tremendous rate. 
Often two together — the girls and boys in separate couples 
— for they were mostly at the age of mutual distrust — 
clutching each other’s shoulders, each arm held stiffly at its 
full length ; swaying from side to side, with the weight first 
on one foot, then on the other; or with their arms round 
each other’s necks, or linked together. 

There were a few older people, but very few, and for the 
most part it was a carnival of children, who swung, darted 
and dipped like swallows : while the noise — the laughter, 
shouting and shrieking, flung back by the hollow squares of 
the tall houses, was incessant. 

For the most part the dwellings were in darkness; the 
fathers were getting their Saturday-night’s shave, or in the 


BELLAMY 


170 

public-houses, the mothers marketing, for there was no 
school next day and no need to hurry the children to bed. 
But the avenues were brightly lighted — showing up the 
slim figures, the loose scarfs, the flying plaits of the girls, 
and it seemed to Bellamy that he had found the source of 
the well springs of London life. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


T HE impact of a stout woman laden with parcels re- 
minded Walter of the morrow. One and ninepence 
had its limits and required harbouring. 

Thus, doubtful of what lay to the west of his lodgings, 
he retraced his steps towards Strutton Ground — lined now 
with stalls and aflame with paraffine torches — and entered 
a small general dealer’s — a replica of his boyhood’s home, 
even to the smell — where he bought a small loaf of bread, 
a quarter of a pound of tea, a quarter of butter, a half- 
penny candle and two boxes of matches. 

The shop was full of the very poorest people, some with 
bottles for paraffine or milk, others bargaining over a single 
rasher of bacon, a single herring or egg, as a treat for Sun- 
day’s breakfast. 

One woman who wished for a quartern loaf, felt over 
each on the counter; set her affections at last on one, of 
which the bottom crust was rather burnt, and insisted that 
the shop-girl should scrape it, then weigh it carefully and 
add what had been lost in the shape of a slice from a cut loaf 
kept at hand for the purpose. 

Outside the shop a lame child pressed his nose against 
the glass, wistfully regarding the sweets — intermingled 
with bootlaces, red herrings and locust beans; marbles, to- 
matoes and small combs — which decorated the window. 

He had been there when Walter Bellamy entered, and all 
the time he was waiting to be served he could see the flat- 
tened, whitened features against the pane. With one of 
his odd spurts of generosity he added a brilliantly striped 
halfpenny sugar-stick to his other purchases and presented 
it as he went out. 

For a moment the white face was lifted from between the 
bent shoulders, and the light eyes gleamed up into his face 
— with the sidelong glance of a wild animal ; then the boy 
clutched his treasure and fled without a single word, fearful 

171 


BELLAMY 


172 

of being despoiled, not attempting to eat it there in the 
open, but clasping it beneath his thin jacket; seeking some 
dark hole or corner where the delicacy might be enjoyed 
in safety. 

As the sharp tap of the child’s crutch was lost in the gen- 
eral turmoil a man leaning against the side of the shop door 
remarked : — 

“ Enter the good man of the Morality Play : distributes 
largesse. Scene one, act one.” 

He spoke with what the Edge folk, accustomed to their 
own broad speech, call “the foreign tang”; and Bellamy, 
glancing sharply round, was surprised to see that he was 
a wretchedly dressed individual with a sodden, pinched 
face; wearing a great-coat, buttoned up to the chin, show- 
ing that flatness and closeness which suggest very little be- 
neath. 

“ The quality of mercy is not strained. ... It blesseth 
him that gives and him that takes,” he went on, with a note 
of bitter mockery in his tone. 

Walter stared — elocution had been one of his strong 
points at school. He had recited this very passage at the 
prize-giving, with — what The Edge Times had described 
as — “ great dramatic force.” 

There was nothing dramatic in the stranger’s delivery. 
He did not. move his hands : spoke as though merely making 
some quiet observation. But Walter Bellamy was shrewd 
enough to realise that he possessed that which is far more 
difficult to achieve than any dramatic delivery — the enunci- 
ation of a cultured gentleman. 

Always eager to learn, he would have continued the con- 
versation ; but with a slight nod the stranger turned aside, 
and he did not like to follow. The fellow — for all his 
pure English — looked like a beggar, and at the moment 
Bellamy felt that he could ill afford such friends. 

Tea fourpence, bread a penny halfpenny, butter four- 
pence halfpenny — best fresh salted — candles and matches 
a penny ; sugar stick a halfpenny. This left him ninepence- 
halfpenny. But after all it was not what a man had that 
counted, it was what he looked like and how he felt. Bel- 
lamy caught many a glimpse of himself in the shop win- 
dows, and was by no means ill-pleased. 


BELLAMY 


173 

He was thoroughly well turned out. The moorland air 
had given him an appearance of vigour and cleanliness, 
which is denied to habitual city-dwellers. He certainly did 
not look like a beggar, which was half the battle; and, 
moreover, he did not feel like one, which was the other half. 

As his landlady opened the door, he delivered his pur- 
chases into her hands. 

“ I thought as I had left it till so late, without giving any 
orders about my breakfast, it might be awkward for you. 
So I did a little marketing — just on the way home from 
my Club. Breakfast at nine, please.” He smiled charm- 
ingly, well pleased with himself. 

The woman felt over the packages doubtfully. “ Won’t 
you take an ’errin’ or a bit o’ bacon, or something o’ that 
sort as a relish? ” 

“ Do you know,” Bellamy smiled again ; “ I never fancy 
anything but toast and tea, or perhaps a roll or a little fruit 
with my breakfast. It’s a Continental habit I’ve dropped 
into. Good night, Mrs. Burston.” 

“ You’ve ’ad your supper?” 

Bellamy, who was half-way up the first flight of stairs, 
turned. “ Indeed, yes. I had it, or rather dinner, at my 
Club. Good night, dormez bien” 

“ That there’s a foreigner I’ve got in the top front,” re- 
marked the landlady as she rejoined her own family, seated 
round a comfortable supper in the basement. 

“ I can’t abear them blackies about my place,” declared 
her husband sourly. For though he lived on his wife’s 
earnings he found a perpetual grievance in the fact that he 
could not have his house to himself. 

“ He ain’t black ; no more black than you are ; a nice- 
spoken fellow, Frenchy I should think. I wonder if he’d 
be above givin’ Ayda some lessons, it’ud come in useful in 
’er trade.” Ada was the eldest daughter and apprenticed 
to a milliner, a slim, white-faced thing, with her hair elab- 
orately puffed and tied up at the back with an immense bow. 
She leant forward now, flushing. 

“ Oh, do let me, Mum. I saw him coming up the steps, 
an’ he’s a real darling — must be six foot if he’s an inch.” 

“ No, that I won’t ’ave ! ” shouted Mr. Burston, very 
loud ; and thumped the table as a signal that he was not to 


174 


BELLAMY 


berput down. “ I mayn’t be nobody in my own ’ouse, an’ 
I don’t put myself forward in no ways. It’s true worth 
as tells in the end, an’ you’ll find that out when I’m gone. 
Blit as ter ’avin’ my gal cheek ter jowl with one o’ them 
foreign darkies I won’t, an’ that’s plain! Do ye ’ear? I 
won’t ’ave it ! Neither now, nor at any other time, neither.” 

“ I might see,” pursued Mrs. Burston, placidly, with her 
eyes on Ada. “ I wonder if he would take sixpence a les- 
son. I don’t believe he’s over well off, for all his gentle- 
manly ways. They say as them foreigners are shocking 
poor.” 

“ Then where’s the rent to come from ? Let me ask you 
that. It ain’t my business, an’ I ain’t one for minding busi- 
ness as isn’t mine ; but you look a’fore you leap, ’Annah, or 
you’ll repent it,” shouted Burston. But his wife took no 
notice: she was busy thinking. 

“ It ain’t eight yet, seems an odd sort o’ time ter ’ave ’ad 

his dinner. Perhaps that’s foreign ways too But all 

the same I reckon ’ed take that sixpence ; say two lessons a 
week. It’ud make a shilling, an’ a shilling’s not to be 
sneezed at these days.” 

“ Poor darling,” said Ada, and pinned on her hat before 
the mantel-glass. “ I’m goin’ to see the pictures with Elsie 
Blount, but I won’t be out later nor eleven.” 

“ You’re not goin’ out o’ this ’ere ’ouse to-night, and that’s 
flat ! ” bellowed her father, emphasising the remark with a 
fresh bang on the table. “ If you go you won’t come back, 
an’ that’s all. I won’t ’ave my girl stavangering round the 
streets past midnight with any rag-tag an’ bob-tail as she 
can pick up with.” 

“ I’ll take the key with me. An’ you might leave the 
chain off, then I won’t disturb any one,” went on Ada com- 
posedly, with a nod to her mother. 

“ All right: but just you keep ter Elsie, don’t you get off 
alone with any fellow.” 

“ ’Tain’t likely ! Don’t you worry about me ; I’m fly. 
Good night, Mum.” 

“ Good night, Ay da. And now, father, you just get them 
there supper dishes together, an’ scraped while the water’s 
boilin’; but don’t you use it all, I’m goin’ to fetch the chil- 
dren in and wash ’em against Sunday.” 


BELLAMY 


175 


“ That there Ayda ” began her husband angrily as 

he piled the dishes together and moved towards the sink. 

“ Oh, just you stop about Ayda. The girl’s right enough 
if you'll leave ’er alone, and don’t drive ’er off with yer 
naggin’; a good girl as girls go. But you’re be’ind your 
times, that’s what’s wrong with you. Girls ain’t as soft as 
they was in your young days, mark my words. You won’t 
catch my Ayda marryin’ a chap like you, not if she knows 
it.” 

“ She may do worse,” remarked Burston bitterly, as he 
slid the dishes into the washing-up basin and turned to- 
wards the kettle ; “ there’s worse things nor marriage.” 

“ Well if there is I ain’t chanced on ’em,” responded his 
wife tartly. And opening the area door she called upward 
to her two younger children, who were playing under the 
dark shadows on the opposite pavement. 

Just to the right of Bellamy’s lodging, a large central 
light, placed on an island, illuminated a star of five roads; 
Vauxhall Bridge Road running north and south, the two 
angles of Bessborough Gardens, and his own street. 

Wrapped in an overcoat — for the little room was bit- 
terly cold — he sat for a long while entranced, watching the 
traffic stream across the bridge and along under his win- 
dow : remorselessly grinding down the slanting shadows of 
the carved figureheads — cast all sideways by the central 
light, as though they were once more pushing forward, 
poised for flight. Then, having devoured a goodly third of 
Jane’s pork pie, cut with his penknife and washed down 
by a glass of cold water, he got into bed and slept, as only 
youth and a clear conscience could sleep, after such a meal. 
For there was no doubt about Walter Bellamy’s conscience; 
it was virgin clear, hard, sound and unscratchable as a dia- 
mond. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


B ELLAMY never quite forgot his first Sunday in Lon- 
don, which partly accounted for his later persistence 
in fitting all possible gaieties into that day, as a sort 
of make-up for its dreariness. 

The sky was yellowish with coming snow ; the wind piti- 
less, making the streets — which had seemed almost fairy- 
like the night before — • hideous with dust and debris, keep- 
ing the people indoors, transforming the river into a grey 
draggle-tailed slut. 

About twelve, unable to bear the inaction any longer, for 
that was the one thing which shook his optimism, Bellamy 
went out — “ to lunch at my Club ” — with the second third 
of the pork pie in his pocket. 

This time he went west. Through Bessborough Gardens 
and up Lupus Street ; sinister and silent, with drawn blinds. 
There were no children here, as around the workmen’s 
flats, and a shrewd conjecture told Bellamy that there were 
not likely to be. Cutting north, westward across Pimlico, 
he passed up Sloane Square — very spruce and respectable, 
with top-hatted men and fur-clad women hurrying back 
from church, bent forward against the wind — and so on 
into the almost empty park. 

Here he had his dinner, furtively on a lonely seat under 
a tree, shielding it with his pocket-handkerchief. For, de- 
spite all his courage, he had not quite surmounted the fear, 
so common to his class, of being caught in the act of 
eating. 

The day seemed endless. He looked at his watch again 
and again ; and shook it and listened, scarcely believing that 
it had not stopped. About five, out of sheer desperate bore- 
dom, as much as anything else, he spent sixpence over cof- 
fee and scones, at a well-warmed restaurant. And finally 
crept home somewhat past seven; telling his landlady that 
he had a sick headache and could not face the thought of 

176 


BELLAMY 


177 


staying out to dinner : — “ Bridge up to any hour, you 
know: smell of cigars, liqueurs and all that.” Though he 
thought he might be able to take a cup of tea; and just one 
slice of dry toast, very thin. 

Something in his look, when she brought up the tea, im- 
pelled Mrs. Burston to broach the subject of lessons. 

“ Oh, I couldn’t think of taking any payment,” protested 
Walter; however the good soul held firm and finally he 
gave in. 

“ Just for the fun of the thing, then.” He spoke as 
though sixpence was so infinitesimal that it became a joke; 
the whole idea utterly whimsical, worth dallying with just 
as a mere fantasy. 

“ Perhaps we might have a little class — pour passer le 
temps,’ ’ he said, sitting up in bed and stirring his tea, his 
eyes bright again at the very thought of action. “ But it 
must be in the evening when I’ get back from the office: 
and I don’t know if I can manage twice a week. I scarcely 
think so. One gets so tangled up with engagements, don’t 
you know. But suppose we start with your charming 
daughter just to see how we get on, eh? ” 

“ Well, the only question is — where? I can’t ’ave Ayda 
cornin’ up ’ere ; and all the other rooms is let.” 

“ Honi soit qui mat y pense!” remarked Bellamy airily. 

“ I don’t understand foreign talk myself, an’ you may be 
right for all I know. But all the same it’ull ’ave ter be in 
the kitchen or not at all,” answered Mrs. Burston ; who for 
all Ada’s ability to take care of herself did not mean to run 
any risks, particularly with a bright-eyed foreign gentleman 
who wore mauve silk pyjamas, with their hint of vice, of 
costly dissipation. 

“ But the kitchen would be delightful,” he answered, so 
sweetly that she was completely won. 

And indeed — as he snuggled down, pulled the scant 
blanket supplemented by his own great-coat up to his 
chin, and endeavoured to warm first one foot, then another, 
in his hand — he felt that the kitchen would be something 
more than “ charming.” For he had glanced down the 
area, as he waited for the door to be opened, and had seen 
the warm crimson glow of the fire, blinking opulently in the 
wide grate. 


BELLAMY 


178 

For three days Bellamy lived upon his watch — from 
which he found himself temporarily forced to separate — 
and the sixpence for Ada’s first lesson. Then he found 
Jane’s half-sovereign, and that gave him a lift into the be- 
ginning of the next week. 

He walked innumerable miles, through the innumerable 
narrow streets and alley-ways which constitute commercial 
London, mysterious-looking places, with high warehouses at 
either side, menacing cranes overhead, and trap-doors in the 
pavement ; the cobble stones crowded with horses and drays, 
and men in their shirtsleeves, loading innumerable packing- 
cases and crates. 

With angry jealousy he noted the dapper clerks, who — 
their pens still in their hands — would occasionally swing 
open the wide main doors, and run down the steps with 
some last directions for the burly carters. 

Almost for the first time in his life he began to feel ill. 
Not tired, though very footsore, not even disheartened; 
but oddly sick, as if the conception of this great London had 
stuck, undigested, in his gullet. But for all that, the lower 
he went the more he ground his teeth over the determination 
to succeed ; to get the better of the world, to “ best it ” as, 
momentarily, it was besting him. 

Meanwhile, he kept his boots highly polished, his clothes 
brushed, his chin shaved — though the state his linen got 
into drove him to the odious ignominy of a celluloid collar 

— and whistled as he went. 

At last, on the Thursday, when things were at their worst 

— and he always knew that when that time came something 
must, and would, turn up — he got a post — as packer in 
a large silk warehouse, by the simple expedient of bringing 
one of his former references up to date. Starting once 
more on the familiar task of boxing up in large wooden 
cases the bobbins and skeins which, likely enough, Jane’s 
nimble fingers had helped to wind — for more than once he 
came across the label of his old firm. 

For this he was paid eighteen shillings a week. Then 
one of the clerks who attended to the invoicing of the goods 
sent out, and the directing of the labels, fell ill; and Bel- 
lamy did the addresses, while another clerk took over the 
invoicing in addition to his own. 


BELLAMY 


179 


After a while he got tired of doing the work of two men. 
And as Bellamy had shown care and insight, and wrote a 
clear clerkly hand, he was given the place, with thirty shil- 
lings a week. Upon which he retrieved his watch and 
bought a new tie : a glossy black with a narrow white stripe. 

It was obvious that he understood his work; in addition 
to this he spread out all his attainments with the skill of a 
master window-dresser. Caught himself up with an apol- 
ogy for talking French instead of English — before his su- 
periors too. Quoted Edge and Paris and Lyons, Wantage 
and Manchester with an air which led to a belief that what 
he did not know about the silk world was not worth know- 
ing. And was so smart, and respectful and ready-witted 
that he soon got another rise: the rung in the ladder this 
time being a bad attack of influenza which laid low the 
typist who attended to the French correspondence. This 
brought his wages up to what he considered salary point; 
to wit, two pounds a week. 

The original holder of the post came back after a month ; 
looking miserably ill, but apparently taking her reinstate- 
ment for granted. Needless to say it was a woman. No 
one but a woman expects to find bowels of compassion in a 
business firm, and Bellamy, who knew his worth, remained 
undisturbed. She actually pleaded an invalid mother, 
which amused him. He had a mother too. So had most 
people ; but he knew that was not the way to touch Brown, 
Son and MacCullagh. The way to do this was to appear 
as if you had absolutely no interest outside “ The Firm,” 
and to make yourself as indispensable as possible. 

This was part of the A. B. C. of business. But apart 
from this astute knowledge Bellamy possessed real qualifi- 
cations, having the element of this particular trade at his 
finger-tips; while he was an upstanding young fellow, a 
credit to any firm — all of which gave him an infinite ad- 
vantage over the small drab thing who, with her influenza, 
served as this special rung of his ladder. Besides, . women 
had no business mixing themselves up in men’s affairs : and 
that was the beginning and the end of the whole affair. 

Oddly enough, though he could not bear to see a lame 
child lacking the sweets for which it craved, he did not give 
a second thought to the girl he had supplanted. 


i8o 


BELLAMY 


When Jane had been such a brick, helping him to get 
away, he had determined that he would marry her as soon 
as he achieved a steady two pounds a week. But now, even 
with the three or four extra shillings which he obtained 
from his French class an established fact, the very 
idea seemed preposterous. He had to dress like a gentle- 
man. It was often too wet to walk down to the City, and 
that meant ’bus fares. He had sent home for his roller 
skates, and occasionally took Ada to the rink — Ada who 
clung and screamed, and adored. He had also joined a gym- 
nastic club in connection with one of the large churches; 
and though the subscription was merely nominal, he had to 
buy shorts and a gauze vest, and rubber-soled shoes. It 
all cost money. But he couldn’t afford to get soft. Be- 
sides which, he sent five shillings every week to his mother. 
A primitive duty, his persistence in which was one of the 
odd contradictions of his nature, though it excused many 
other duties. 

The truth was that the two pounds and few odd shil- 
lings — shorn of that five — was hardly sufficient for him 
to keep himself. It would be wicked to drag dear little 
Jane — Jane who earned, and lived on, the princely sum of 
eleven shillings a week — down to a life of such grinding 
poverty. 

In fear of losing him, his employers raised his pay to 
two pounds ten. But still his expenses increased. The 
Rector of the parish observed him at the gymnasium classes, 
such a wholesome, well-built, nice-mannered young fellow! 
discovered that he had a fair baritone voice, jumped to the 
conclusion of his Christianity, and roped him in for the 
choir. 

After this he bought a frock-coat and top hat, and moved 
down to a balcony bed-sitting-room at Mrs. Burston’s, feel- 
ing the need of somewhere to ask his friends. 

It all cost money ; though he lived as sober and simple a 
life as any mother could have wished for, and Mrs. Burston 
— noting the augmentation of Ada’s giggles — observed 
him closely and persistently. 

The worst of it was that he could never appear to be 
saving or scraping. For in his class of life it would never 


BELLAMY 181 

be forgotten against him. A “ real toff ” could afford to 
be “ hard up,” but not Walter Bellamy. 

Meanwhile, in his whole daily regime, there was only one 
element that was not utterly smug and clerkly, one cloud 
upon Mrs. Burston’s maternal complacency; and that was 
his friendship with Francis Gale. 


CHAPTER XXX 


G ALE was the unique person who had quoted Shake- 
speare in Strutton Ground on that first Saturday- 
night. The next time Bellamy came across him he 
was leaning over the parapet of the Embankment just oppo- 
site the Tate Gallery; later on Bellamy observed that he al- 
ways seemed to be leaning, either against or over something. 

He happened to look up as Bellamy passed; and turning 
round leant backwards, with his elbows on the coping, his 
shoulders high, his bleached face sunk between them. 

It was an oddly contradictory face, at once puffy and 
emaciated. The forehead, under the peaked cap, was hol- 
low at the temples, the bridge of the nose finely cut, the 
eyes sunk deep between the fine brows. But underneath 
the eyes the flesh was pouched, the nostrils and end of the 
nose coarsened; so was the lower lip, though the upper — 
short and straight and sensitive — seemed to have abso- 
lutely nothing to do with it; to be scarcely on speaking 
terms with anything so palpably its inferior. 

“Well, Philanthropist ! ” said the. stranger. 

“ Well/’ retorted Bellamy, rather clumsily — for anything 
like banter made him feel awkward. But for all that he 
lingered ; though the other man had turned, and again leant 
facing the river; with his chin cupped in his hands. 

“ It’s jolly here on a fine evening, isn’t it?” he began 
tentatively. 

“ You moderns ! ” the man gave a short laugh and a 
shrug: “ what use you make of words! Jolly — jollity — 
jovial, jocund! To me they picture Bacchus and all his 
crew: fauns, satyrs and nymphs. The vintage, and the 
vintners : grape-crowned, irresponsible, lustful youth ! 
Music — ■ not flutes or pipes, but the clash of cymbals. Red 
mouths, juice stained; bare breasts; white thighs. But to 
call this jolly.” He stood upright, and waved his hand, 
first down then up the river. “ Once England might have 


BELLAMY 


183 

been jolly, but I doubt it. It was always like poor Tom 

* a’cold ’ No, it was never jolly! Urbane is the most 

you could say of it: wrapped in the cobwebs of centuries. 
Tender, pathetic, peaceful — for any one who prefers the 
negative cocoon to the worm or the butterfly — I’ll grant 
you that. But jolly ! My God, no ! The place seems so 
dead, it’s a wonder it doesn’t stink — even worse than it 
does.” 

“ You wouldn’t say that if you were down in the City.” 
Walter was standing very upright, one hand just touching 
the stone coping, the other grasping his well-furled um- 
brella. He spoke in his most business-like, man-of-the- 
world fashion. An evident survival of England’s lost life. 
“ By Jove, things are humming in the City; there’s not time 
to turn round.” 

“ Children playing with dead men’s bones. But you’re 
from the north — Staffordshire or Lancashire ? ” 

“ North Staffordshire.” Walter flushed with annoyance ; 
not that he was ashamed of his birthplace, but of the fact 
that he still carried the tang of it on his tongue. 

“ Oh, you northerners keep some youth ; are merely mid- 
dle-aged, while we suffer from senile decay. What are you 
in — cotton ? ” 

“ No, silk — of sorts.” 

“ Artificial silk, silken, silkine, mercerised silk — how 
much of it that the silkworm has bowing acquaintance with, 
I wonder. How much of reality in anything? I’d stick to 
cotton if I were you — real needs against the sham lux- 
uries.” 

“ But I was brought up to the silk.” 

The stranger laughed : “ So was I ! ” 

“ Where — up Staffs way ? ” 

“ No, other factories for attempting to manufacture silk 
purses out of sows’ ears — or calves’ heads, or such cook- 
shop delicacies.” 

“ The worst of those artificial silks,” remarked Walter 
sagely, for he could always fall back upon his real practical 
knowledge, when other people started on epigrams — “ is 
that they won’t bear wetting — go all to pieces.” 

The other man laughed ; an odd cracked laugh. “ That’s 
what’s wrong with me. I wouldn’t bear wetting. And 


BELLAMY 


184 

without doubt I have wetted — pretty considerably too; 
and gone to pieces under the process.” 

He jerked himself upright, pulled his thin coat round him 
and turned up his collar. For though it was already March, 
and the midday full of the promise of Spring, by six o’clock 
it had turned too cold to be leaning over stone parapets; 
particularly when, as now, the tide was coming in, with its 
damp sea chills. 

“ Well, I’ll say good night.” The stranger touched his 
hand to his cap and turned. 

“ It is cold, I think I’ll get on too. Do you live near 
here ? ” Bellamy, oddly reluctant to let the man go, moved 
on a step or so at his side. 

“ What ! That’s good ! Live ! I don’t live anywhere. 
Sometimes I exist, and sometimes — for rare moments — 
I soar; but as for living! Don’t you realise, young man, 
that you’ve been talking to a ghost : a ghost of a mistaken 
idea.” # 

“ I live quite near ; ” with one of those impulses which so 
often ma?de Bellamy fling overboard all that hoarded con- 
ventionality of months, he touched the other’s arm: “come 
back and have some supper with me. Usually I dine at my 
Club, but on Friday nights I go to a gymnasium near here, 
so my landlady gets me something to eat quite early.” 

The other turned and regarded him with an odd twist of 
that superior upper lip. “ I was just wondering whether 
you’d come with me, but my Club’s in Pall Mall : and — hang 

it all but there’s not a taxi to be seen; while the 

4 Savoy’s ’ a fairish step, would throw us too late for the 
theatre ” 

Walter Bellamy laughed, almost boyishly. He knew that 
the stranger was laughing at him; and if any one of his 
associates at the office had dared to do such a thing he 
would have been furious. But one could scarcely take a 
man who wore such boots seriously; much as one might 
learn from him. “ Oh, come along,” he said : “ cold meat 
and bread and cheese and beer,” and swung his companion 
round, with a hand upon his arm in the direction of his 
own room. 

Luckily he had a latch-key by now, and his new friend 
got a wash and brush up in his bedroom before Mrs. Burs- 


BELLAMY 


185 

ton brought the supper; but for all that she stared at the 
stranger, while he stared back, with his odd mouth all awry 
and his eyebrows raised as if to ask what she thought of 
him : then turned to the window and stood gazing out, with 
his hands in the pockets of the great-coat which Walter did 
not dare ask him to remove. 

“ Rum thing those figures opposite, fronting inland after 
all these years. Reminds me of birds in cages: one feels 
one must do something — set them free for their Islands of 
Desire, turn them facing round with the outgoing tide.” 

“ Sometimes it almost looks as if they were moving when 
the wind is stirring the shadows from the trees at the side, 
and the pavements are wet and shining,” answered Bellamy, 
with unexpected insight. “ We’ll want another bottle of 
beer, please, Mrs. Burston.” 

“ Not for me, thanks,” the other man turned round as he 
spoke : “ I never take it.” 

“ No beer — but what will you take ? ” Walter stared, 
then with an effort of imagination added : “ I’m afraid I’ve 
got no wine in — so seldom here, you know.” 

“ I’d rather have tea, if it wouldn’t be giving too much 
trouble.” 

“ Of course not, bring some, please, Mrs. Burston. And 
now, supper’s ready I think — all excepting your tea. Will 
you start ? ” Walter played the host a little clumsily. Sud- 
denly he felt rather a fool. Mrs. Burston’s stare had 
quenched his ardour; the stranger looked far worse in the 
smug room — for all his wash and brush up — than he had 
done on the grey Embankment. 

The other must have caught some of the doubt in his 
glance, for as he moved forward he laughed. 

“ You needn’t be afraid ; I shan’t run off with the spoons. 
I confess to many weaknesses, but that’s not one; unless 
they’re Georgian — and of the very best. By the way, I 
think I ought to introduce myself, my name’s Gale — Fran- 
cis Gale.” 

“ And mine’s Bellamy — Walter Bonnet Bellamy.” Wal- 
ter held to the “ Bonne,” but he had never picked up the 
other point in his name which Gale struck immediately. 

“ Belle-amie.” 

“ Do you speak — pronounce it like that, is that correct ? ” 


i86 


BELLAMY 


“I really don't know. But it seems the obvious way, 
though of course any number of French names have been 
twisted out of recognition. Belle-amie — beautiful friend: 
by Jove, it’s like a name out of ‘ Le Romaunt de Rose.’ ” 

'‘Of course it's French,” answered Bellamy pompously; 
“ my father belonged to an old French family. My second 
name — it’s spelt Bonnet — is after my grandmother’s peo- 
ple. We are of Norman origin I believe.” 

“ More likely Gascon.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Well, they’re notably quick on the uptake, for one 
thing.” Francis Gale’s cynical eyes examined his host 
thoughtfully. It certainly would not do to recount all the 
qualities usually attributed to the Gascons. “ Do you speak 
French? ” 

“ Un peu.” The young man flourished a few sentences, 
and the other replied with clear scholarly French that was 
very easy to follow. 

They were still conversing in that language when Mrs 
Burston brought up the tea, returning to her own quarters 
to repeat that after all it was a foreigner and not a beggar 
that Mr. Bellamy had with him. For the ordinary woman 
— stimulated by the sense of mystery — will forgive any- 
thing to a man of another nation. 

Walter already spoke fairly well, while he was as quick 
as lightning to catch up any point in the other’s pronuncia- 
tion; and for a while Gale amused himself, playing with 
him, bringing in words that the other misused, and waiting 
for them to appear again in their proper form. 

“You want practice,” he said at last, as they pushed 
back their chairs from the table and Walter proffered his 
cigarettes. “ But, by Jove, you speak French a great deal 
better than you speak English.” Gale’s tone was carelessly 
insolent. Suddenly he felt flat and tired, bored by the 
whole thing. 

“ Oh, I don’t know half enough words. I only com- 
menced when I was getting quite a big boy ” began 

Bellamy. Then remembered, and drew himself up sharply. 
“ My father very rarely spoke his native language — mal du 
pays you understand — excepting with a few of his most 
intimate friends.” Oh, ye shades of Bellamy senior! — 


BELLAMY 


187 

The doggish Bellamy — and Jimmy Clarke, Tommy Irwin 
and Bram Walsh, twanging their broad Staffordshire over 
their evening ale! 

“ You might be a gentleman when you speak French, no 
one could mistake you for anything of the sort when you 
speak English.” Gale was swinging backwards and for- 
wards on his tipped chair ; his hands thrust into the tops of 
his trousers, his shoulders high, his overcoat fallen back 
and showing the ruins of a white shirt, clean enough, but 
ragged and unironed. He was sick and chilly; and — de- 
spite his good supper — tearingly empty. 

“ Oh, I say, that’s rather too much. You come here ” 

began Walter angrily, but the other interrupted him with 
lifted hand. 

“ Now, what is the good of getting cross. You grow 
pink when you get cross, my good Belle-amie, and then you 
don’t look pretty.” He blew out a cloud of cigarette smoke, 
and watched it float up to the ceiling; dismally enough, as 
if in the vain effort to discover some possible diversion on 
life — the smoke from the cigarette Bellamy himself had 
given him. 

“ Well, I’ll be damned ! ” ejaculated that young gentleman. 

“ Doubtless you will be, unless the Primitive Methodists 
get you again.” Walter stared. How in the world did the 
fellow know the faith in which he had been brought up? 
“ As for me I can only hope the next world will be warmer 
than this,” Gale shivered as he spoke. Then went on, 
rather querulously, “ After all, what’s the good of getting 
annoyed because I say that you’re not a gentleman; you 
know you’re not. You’d never think of it if you were, 
any more than I do.” 

“ Well, of all the swank ; if you could only see yourself ! ” 
Walter laughed rudely. 

“ As you see me, or my own world sees me — or as the 
Almighty sees me ? They all get me at different angles, you 
know. But don’t imagine I’m swanking, as you call it. 
What does it mean if I am, what is technically known as, 
a gentleman, and you are not. Things come natural to me 
that don’t come natural to you. But for the rest! I’m a 
survival, I and my sort; bred out. We’ll soon be as extinct 
as the Dodo; while every year you get a foot further in. 


i88 


BELLAMY 


Why, even in sport — once the prerogative of my sort — 
it’s your sort now who own our horses and dogs, who sail 
our yachts and marry our women, while we’re like the 
drones in the hives. We can’t afford to do any of the 
things that amuse us; and we’ve never learnt to do any of 
the things that might profit us. Our passions have sunk to 
vices; we can’t even breed. In the old days they were 
Seignorial Rights; we toned down the exuberance of the 
peasant’s blood and at the same time replenished our own. 
But now we come to London or Paris ; are the sport of 
prostitutes and chorus girls — while you push on, and climb 
up and over. Red-blooded, sanguine, truculent, persistent. 
By God, it’s you who are the top dogs and you know it, and 
what the hell possesses you to want to become like us ? ” 

Suddenly Gale rose, and swung round to the window. 
“ I say, I suppose you haven’t got any brandy, have you ? ” 

“ No,” Walter answered vaguely. He realised that the 
other had been speaking more to himself than to his host. 
But for all that he realised that he was right. Instinctively 
he flexed his arm and felt the muscles swell beneath his 
coat-sleeve. He was thinly dressed, but he very seldom 
felt the cold; he could go for a long time without food. 
Gale was right, every drop of blood in his veins was red: 
it pulsed through him like the beat of drums driving him on 
to fresh effort, to a fuller life. He prided himself on his 
lack of scruples. If people got down they must expect to 
be trodden underfoot. To get on, to get on, and still — 
to get on. To make other people sit up : that was his ideal ! 
But still there were amenities, and no one realised this 
better than himself. 

“ It’s the broad Staffordshire that sticks.” 

“ Oh, it isn’t only that. Not half so much as the words 
you use — the way you put them.” 

“ How do you mean? ” 

“ Well, * commence,’ for instance — how many times have 
I heard that word to-night ? ” 

“ But that’s all right.” 

“ I dare say, but we don’t use it. We * start ’ or ‘ begin.’ 
We ‘go on,’ we don’t ‘continue.’ We say ‘What?’ or 
‘ What’s that ? ’ or ‘ Eh ? ’ It’s very ugly — not nearly as 
polite as ‘ I beg your pardon,’ but there it is.” 


BELLAMY 


189 


“ Don’t you say ‘ I beg your pardon ’ ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, if we tread on a fellow’s toes ; but not if we 
don’t hear what he says. It’s little things like that which 
tell.” 

Gale was moving aimlessly round the room, his hands 
still tucked into the tops of his trousers, the long tails of 
his coat hanging over his arm. There was a patch on the 
seat of his trousers; badly put on with what looked like a 
piece of a sock. “ Did you say you hadn’t got any brandy ? ” 
he broke off again suddenly. 

“ No, and I don’t know that I’d give it you if I had, not 
here anyhow.” The sight of that patch had revived Bel- 
lamy’s self-confidence. “ But look here, I’ll pay you nine- 
pence twice a week, say Tuesdays and Thursdays, if you 
will come here for an hour or so and talk and read with me 
— French and English. Say from eight to ten in the 
evening.” 

“Ninepence!” Gale turned round and regarded the 
other man sorrowfully. “ Ninepence ! ” he repeated, and 
shook his head. “ Belle-amie, my friend, you will never be 
the complete gentleman till you finish with intermediate 
sums of that sort. Half a crown — or even a shilling may 
be considered at times — but ninepence ! ” 

“ It’s quite enough,” answered Bellamy firmly, in his 
briskest City manner. It had nearly been sixpence, and he 
felt distinctly lavish as he made the offer, a whole three- 
pence more than he received from his pupils. 

“ The condensed essence of the very best preparatory 
school, with everything an extra, and Harrow and Oxford, 
all for fourpence halfpenny an hour! Somehow it doesn’t 
seem exorbitant.” Again Gale shook his head: and then 
shivered. “ All right — and suppose you pay for the first 
lesson in advance, now ; just to bind the bargain.” 

Bellamy stared hardly. Then, remembering that as a 
gentleman one must be more or less reckless, even with 
money — willing to run certain risks — he took some loose 
cash — which he used to jangle against his keys — out of 
his pocket and handed Gale a shilling. “ There you are 
and — oh, well, don’t bother about the change,” he said 
with his grandest air. 

The bulk of brandy one can buy for a shilling is not 


BELLAMY 


190 

great, even when you have ceased to be very particular 
about the quality. But it is quite enough to change one’s 
outlook on life; to take the place of food and fire, not to 
mention friends and lovers; even to retrieve the burden of 
the past. And looking back on the couple of hours spent 
in Bellamy’s company Gale came to the conclusion that it 
had not been devoid of interest. 

“ Virile ! God, what virility and about as much heart 
and conscience as a cheese-mite. An imagination big 
enough to tell lies with, but not big enough for him to see 
to where the terror of life begins — get the horrors over it 
as greater men do. He’ll go far, that fellow, if the Gallic 
drop doesn’t impel him to make a sudden fool of himself, 
just as he’s got his foot on the ladder. That’s the devil 
with all of us. We get full of corn, begin to kick up our 
heels — then forget and bray.” 

So much for Gale’s reflections. As to Bellamy, it was 
only after his strange visitor had gone, and he was on his 
way to the gymnasium, that he remembered he had omitted 
to try his famous silence, or still more famous stare upon 
his visitor. But on further reflection he determined that 
it would have been no good. There was a look in Gale’s 
pale eyes which gave you the impression that he could see 
straight through you. And after all what did it matter; 
they had no mutual acquaintance, and to Bellamy it was an 
odd sort of relief — akin to his feeling for Jane — to be 
with some one who was not in the least taken in by his 
pretensions. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


T HOSE French and English lessons became a regular 
part of Walter Bellamy’s life. The fee remained 
at a shilling — often borrowed for a week or more 
ahead. But he felt he was getting his money’s worth and 
he could afford it ; for he had been given another rise, and 
was now getting three pounds a week. 

During the summer the lessons were not always held at 
his rooms. He and Gale would go to the strip of County 
Council Gardens at the edge of the river below St. George’s 
Square, or to the Embankment. Or perhaps alter their 
hours, so that they might visit the Tate Gallery — where 
Gale taught him a smattering of Art, catching him up at 
every slip; or Westminster Abbey, where he learnt some- 
thing of the atmosphere of history, so different from the 
dry array of facts which stands for that branch of learning 
at the elementary schools. 

Apart from all this, Bellamy was careful to keep to that 
particular side of London, where it was unlikely that he 
would meet any of his City associates. For despite the 
fact that he had given his companion a few passable collars 
and an old coat of his own — which hung upon him like a 
sack — Gale could scarcely be said to look spruce. At 
times, indeed, Walter Bellamy was surprised at his own 
moral courage in going about with him at all. Though on 
these occasions he was careful to wear what he called his 
“ mufti ” — as distinct from the top hat and frock coat in 
which his soul delighted — so as to attract as little attention 
as possible. 

One day in late September — for so long had the curious 
friendship lasted — the two men were just about to turn up 
the steps of the Tate Gallery, when they were blocked on 
one side by a group of children and young people, who had 
just come out, and were straggling all over the pavement, 

191 


192 


BELLAMY 


and on the other by a lady who stood beside a large open 
motor, giving some directions to her footman. 

Bellamy heard him say, “ Very well, my lady,” saw him 
touch his hat, and thought, “ It’s some toff.” All in the 
moment in which she turned and walked towards the steps ; 
a movement which brought her face to face with himself 
and his companion. 

Then, to his surprise, he saw her flush all over her pale, 
clear-cut face — shaded with a big grey hat and feathers. 
Saw her stretch* out both her hands towards Gale — an odd 
childish movement, strangely at variance with the complete 
finish of her appearance — and heard her say, “Frank!” 
Then, “Oh, Frank!” like that, as he drew back sharply, 
raised his disreputable cap, and moved forward without a 
word. 

The next moment, however, she had her hand on his arm. 
“Frank, Frank! How can you, after all these years? 
Oh, Frank! ” 

Her voice was broken between tears and laughter, and 
she was trembling from head to foot. 

With a great effort of will Bellamy remembered that he 
was a gentleman, and, moving on, leant against one of the 
parapets of the outer wall of the enclosure. But for all 
that he could not help seeing what happened. 

Gale had stopped and stood stiffly upright; not a muscle 
of his face stirred. For a moment he held his hand to the 
lady's arm, as though afraid that she might fall. Then 
very gently loosed her fingers from their hold on his sleeve. 

She clasped both hands now and stood before him, some- 
thing like a child, speaking very quickly. Bellamy could 
catch the rise and fall of her breast. She was slender and 
dark, and from tip to toe exquisite. But he had the odd 
idea that — for this man at least — she was full of passion 
and feeling, that Gale could have done anything he liked 
with her. There was a long chain round her neck that 
flashed in the autumn sun, but otherwise she was all in the 
palest grey, hat, dress, shoes and stockings: that delicate 
easily stained tint that nobody excepting a rich woman 
would dare to wear in London, 

It was a marvel to Walter Bellamy that Gale could stand 


BELLAMY 


193 


like that, as stiff as a poker, and merely shake his head when 
she paused for breath, with the same little gesture of en- 
treaty, so clearly expressed that she might as well have 
taken her heart out of her body and offered it to him, then 
and there — all warm and bleeding. 

Again she spoke, and again he shook his head. Then 
said something with a gesture in the direction of the Gal- 
lery. Bellamy thought that he must be asking her if she 
was going in. 

But with a sudden movement she turned again to her 
motor — where the footman still stood, staring in sheer 
amazement — while something in her manner seemed to tell 
Bellamy that she was blinded with tears. 

Gale followed ; waved the man aside — with what seemed 
to Bellamy a grand gesture, opened the door, helped her in, 
and spread the light rug, with its embroidered coronet, over 
her knees. As he shut the door she gave him some direc- 
tion, and he spoke to the footman, who, touching his hat, 
mounted the driving seat beside the chauffeur. 

Then — just as the motor was starting, and Gale raised 
his cap and drew back — she did the most amazing thing. 

Leant right over the edge, caught the disreputable man’s 
hand in hers and kissed it passionately. 

There on the Embankment! Right in front of the po- 
liceman, and the little group of staring children, who for- 
ever — schooltime or no schooltime — hang about the steps 
of the Gallery. 

For a moment or two Gale stood rigidly still, his cap still 
in his hand. But as the motor disappeared, engulfed in the 
traffic, he turned and began to walk rapidly away. Then, 
as if suddenly remembering Bellamy, swung round and re- 
traced his steps, meeting his pupil — whose indignation at 
being forgotten was engulfed in curiosity — face to face. 

“ I say ! I beg your pardon, Belle-amie ; awfully sorry to 
have kept you waiting.” 

“ Oh, it doesn’t matter,” the younger man hesitated a 
moment then added, “ But perhaps you’d rather leave it ; 
not go in to-day.” 

Gale turned upon him with a quick hard stare, which 
made Bellamy feel that, in this respect at least, he had more 


194 


BELLAMY, 


than met his master. “ Why not ? Isn’t that what we are 
"here for ? ” he enquired coldly. Though, for all his non- 
chalance, Bellamy observed that he carried his left hand 
stuck into the breast of his coat. And thus — as a man 
generally uses his right hand to raise his cap — drew his 
own conclusions; which were more romantic than might 
have been expected from the whilom lover of Miss Rose 
Higgins. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


T HAT evening, feeling that he needed some assurance 
of his own superiority, Walter Bellamy took Ada 
Burston to the skating rink. 

He wore white flannels, a blue serge coat, polo collar, 
and blue tie, the clear tints of which showed up his bright 
colouring, his white even teeth, and sparkling eyes to per- 
fection. 

Any one who can roller skate over the cobble-stones in 
Edge can skate anywhere. But in addition to this certainty 
of movement, there was a neatness, a clear-cut finish in all 
that Bellamy did. Again and again the other performers 
stopped and watched him ; the way he twisted and turned, 
the figures he formed, the pose and daring of him. 

There was one girl in a dark blue skirt and white blouse, 
who skated as well as he did, and again and again they 
waltzed together. She was as slender, as neat and finished 
as a steel spring, and light as a feather: seeming to possess 
most absolute command over her dainty little feet, in their 
trimly laced brown boots, the exact shade of her plainly 
dressed hair, which she wore parted at the side like a boy. 

It was a delight to see the two together. No wonder peo- 
ple stared and applauded, for they were of the very essence 
of youth, “ la joie de vie/’ as Bellamy was fond of calling it. 

He did not skate all the time with the russet-haired girl. 
He was far too much of a man of the world for that. He 
skated with other girls, and by himself; and with other 
young fellows, flying round bent almost double. And twice 
he took out Ada. 

But Ada did not seem to improve in her skating: partly 
owing to the fact that she would persist in wearing low-cut, 
patent-leather shoes, while the combs kept dropping out of 
her hair, and her skates caught in the lace of her petticoat. 

All this was certainly not Bellamy's fault. Therefore it 
was very unreasonable of her to begin to complain on the 

195 


BELLAMY 


196 

way home. To declare she hated skating, and that the red- 
haired girl wasn’t “ no class,” likely enough out of a factory 
— for it is an odd fact that while the wholesale owner de- 
spises the retail owner, the retail worker equally despises 
the wholesale — that she should not go to the rink any more 
if Walter carried on in that fashion : that she was tired and 
had a headache: that Elsie’s brother had offered to take 
her to the picture palace and that now she wished she had 
gone. 

Poor little soul ! She was quite as pathetically miserable 
as the lady in grey; and her new hat, which required so 
many pins to keep it even moderately straight, felt like a 
load of bricks at the top of her befrizzled and padded hair. 

But Bellamy had no pity for her. She was “ common,” 
and the more he observed and learnt the more intolerant he 
became of such commonness as he could understand. For 
he was learning quickly, and already recognised faults in 
others which he himself had shared only a few months ear- 
lier. Besides, there was something feeble about the girl: 
the sort that seems born to be the sport of any reasonably 
good-looking man — and he hated feebleness. 

He did not condescend to argue with her. Arguing was 
“ common.” He simply kept silence, which drove Ada - to 
fresh effort to arouse some sign of jealousy, or even anger. 
Till at last he turned on her with his hard stare, and said 
quite politely : 

“ Do you mind not speaking so loud. We don’t want 
every one to hear us.” 

It was in exact imitation of the way he had once over- 
heard Gale speak to an aggressively quarrelsome drunken 
man. Gale had been a little drunk himself, but at those 
times — though more cynical — -he was more punctiliously 
polite than at any others. 

What Bellamy did fail to realise was that — never at any 
time, drunk or sober — would Gale have used that tone to a 
woman. 

As it was, Ada snapped her teeth with an exasperated 
snarl. Put out one hand and gave him a push that was 
almost a blow. Then burst into tears. 

She sobbed more or less unrestrainedly all the way home. 


BELLAMY 


197 

But as Bellamy stood holding the area gate open for her 
she caught at his arm. 

“ I’m sorry — I — I didn’t mean to turn nasty. Suppose 

— suppose,” she gave a broken giggle, which was intended 
to be coy — “ we kiss and make friends.” 

She lifted her face as she spoke. It was flushed and dis- 
torted with tears, rendered grotesque by the light which 
trembled upon it through the dried leaves of the plane trees 
at the corner. 

Bellamy had not the faintest desire to kiss her : would as 
soon have kissed one of the figure-heads across the way. 
But it would not do to have a row with Ada. He had quite 
a big class every Wednesday now, and she was indefatiga- 
ble at raking in new members. Besides, he was very com- 
fortable at Mrs. Burston’s; he would never get anything 
again half so good for his money. And stooping he kissed 
her full on her red mouth. 

“ Don’t be a silly little girl,” he said ; gave her a little pat 
on the shoulder and sent her off down the steps quite happy. 

He had not wanted to kiss her: did not care twopence 
about the girl. But for all that the human contact stirred 
his blood, and for some time he could not settle to sleep. 

Since he came up to London he had been too busy getting 
on to think of much else. He could always subdue his pas- 
sions if he chose, though it was better fun to indulge them 

— for there was none of that weakness in him of which 
Gale had complained in his own sort — whoever they might 
be ! 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


E ITHER as the result of witnessing Gale’s romantic 
meeting with the lady in grey — of which they had 
neither of them ever spoken — or that tepid passage 
with Ada, or else because he had been eight months in the 
silk warehouse, Bellamy began to grow restless. 

Fortunately, about this time, he received a fillip which 
kept him going for some months longer. 

The senior partner in Brown, Son and MacCullagh’s was 
an old man, shrewd but failing, and often absent for weeks ; 
the son was a devotee of golf ; the junior partner constantly 
abroad on business affairs. There were plenty of responsi- 
ble elderly clerks and buyers. But their weakness lay in 
the fact that they did not know the anatomy of the business 
in which they were engaged; while the comparatively new 
trade in artificial silk — a material as moody as diversified, 
as subject to outside influences as a woman — baulked them. 

Still endeavouring to judge it by real silk standards, they 
were unable to balance qualities and relative prices. Hung 
back when they ought to have gone on, then made rash leaps 
in the wrong direction: aggravating the travellers so that, 
again and again, Walter — with his crude, practical knowl- 
edge — was called in to settle some difference of opinion. 

Even then it was not Brown and MacCullagh’s own buy- 
ers who found him out; but the manufacturers’ travellers, 
who caught his northern twang, his business-like air, and 
preferred to deal with a young spark — who perhaps knew 
too much — rather than with a group of men who did not 
even know their own minds. 

Apart from this ignorance of material, their ignorance of 
the modern working-class constituted a weakness with all 
the elder members of the firm. For them the manufacturer 
put a penny in the slot, and the workers did the rest, almost 
mechanically, going on working as long as the masters sup- 
plied what they considered the right number of coins. 

198 


BELLAMY 


199 


But Walter knew better, realising the workers as the 
mercury in the business thermometer, liable to mysterious 
fluctuations. 

Just about this time they were set anything but fair. 

It was the old story of five years earlier. Once more the 
masters were endeavouring to cut down the artificial-silk 
workers and threatening a general lock-out should they re- 
fuse to fall into line ; for the busy season was over and they 
could afford to have the mills lie idle for a month. 

But even they did not realise the strength of the Union, 
or how the former strike had solidified the workers. It 
was once more a question of women’s wages. But this time 
the men — if they once came out with them — were deter- 
mined to put in certain demands on their own account be- 
fore they would go back! particularly the weavers, whose 
material was becoming more and more shoddy and difficult 
to work, while their wages dropped proportionately. 

Jane wrote to Walter pretty regularly; friendly, unlover- 
like letters, usually the gossip of the mills. 

The relations between master and workers had become 
more and more strained; it breathed through all of Jane’s 
letters, for she felt it like thunder in the air. 

There were tentative strike meetings. Things seemed to 
hang fire for an unnecessary time. How well he knew it 
all! The apparent carelessness: the small attendance, the 
laughter and inattention at the meetings. Then the sudden 
stiffening together of the whole body. 

Luckily the senior partner happened to be particularly 
well, coming to the warehouse regularly, and Walter 
achieved a personal interview, at which he so impressed the 
old man with his conviction that there was trouble brewing 
— for he really did know, and used his knowledge in a way 
which made every iota of it bite — that a bigger order was 
got out than had ever been thought of before ; then another 
and another, till Brown, Son and MacCullagh was stocked 
to the very limit of its capacity. 

Indeed, for a fortnight — the last fortnight in October — 
packing cases and crates were pouring in at such a rate that 
they could not be got out of the way quickly enough, and 
piled up in entrances and offices; while the whole staff 
cursed, appealing to every one within hearing, Walter in- 


200 


BELLAMY 


eluded, to know if it was not the “ damnedest folly ! ” And, 
what would Mr. MacCullagh say when he came home? 
And what the devil possessed “ that old fool ” ? 

For even when he had bought the stuff he would not leave 
it alone. The underground storehouses were dried with 
lime, heated with kerosine stoves; the cases constantly 
shifted and rearranged. Every one’s back ached, their tem- 
pers were worn to a thread. The tap, tap of the old man’s 
stick, the thin parchment-like face, poked forward between 
the bent shoulders, was everywhere. Walter heard nothing 
but complaints and joined in them. Nobody realised that 
if Mr. Brown gave his employes no peace, the newest clerk 
in the firm gave him no peace. That the minutely torn 
scraps of paper which the office-boy was continually clear- 
ing up — and could have made nothing of if he had read 
them — were notes in Walter Bellamy’s fine clerkly hand. 

The worst of it was that, with all this buying, the firm 
itself sent out no travellers ; the highly perishable stock was 
simply accumulating. Every member of the firm was in a 
state of panic. There was some talk of appealing to the 
“ Son,” but he was at St. Andrew’s playing in a tournament. 
Unless the junior partner came home soon — and no one 
seemed to know his address — it would end in a general 
smash up. And where would they be then ? 

Not a penny was being turned over. It was nothing but 
buying — buying. There was not a man among them who 
would not have got away from the sinking ship if he had 
seen the chance of another job. 

Then, quite suddenly, the storm, which Walter had felt 
coming — tingling through his finger-tips, crackling like 
electricity out of every one of Jane’s shrewd epistles — 
broke. 

It was an exact replica of five years ago — with additions. 

First the winders went out, then the knitters, the warp- 
ers, the tassellers, the f ringers, the throwers, the twisters, 
and the weavers, till every mill in Edge stood silent. 

But this time it was not only Edge : the two sister towns, 
federated with her under one Union stood firm by Burton, 
and brought out every one of their workers, while Bellamy 
grinned to himself at the thought of all those improved 
automatic spoolers standing idle at “ Morrison’s.” 


BELLAMY 


201 


# Up in London the retail supply — particularly of hard 
silk — - soon ran out : then the warehousemen began to feel 
the pinch. Only at Brown, Son and MacCullagh’s was there 
still corn in Egypt ; and their prices went up with a bound, 
till every little dressmaker and jobbing tailor felt the pinch. 

Walter’s salary was raised to three hundred a year. He 
sent his mother ten shillings a week now, while it was a sort 
of salve to his conscience to know that Jane was boarding 
with her and would get some of the benefits. But, for all 
that, he never thought of what Jane’s life really was; still 
at the same place where he had been five years earlier. 
Nay, infinitely worse, for when his work was done he had 
larked about with the other young fellows, or gone off on 
his bicycle; while Jane, when she had finished at the fac- 
tory, went home to housework, and washing and cooking, 
and the never-ending complaints of old Mrs. Bellamy, who 
seemed to have been wound up so as to go on till eternity. 

Directly the strike should be over Bellamy was to start 
as a buyer. The workers were winning all along the line: 
prices were bound to go up, and Brown and MacCullagh 
would want brains at their end of the line. The junior 
partner was back again, and personally thanked the young 
fellow whose promptness was recognised by all concerned. 
No one envied his good fortune, for they had all benefited 
by it. Besides, he was so royally genial, the old feeling of 
being on tiptoe had come back to him, and he worked as 
one possessed : relinquishing all outside interests, excepting 
his hours with Gale — and even they were dodged in when- 
ever he could get them. 

By the end of four months, when the strike broke, and 
the men and women went back to work — white faced and 
eager eyed, but triumphant — practically any position in the 
firm had become merely a matter of time. 

Then, quite suddenly, Bellamy’s patience broke. He was 
bored to death by the whole thing. The very thought of 
going to business in the morningmade him feel physically 
sick. He both looked, and was, ill. The firm offered him 
a holiday, but he did not need rest. If he could have af- 
forded a race round the world or across the Continent it 
would have done him good — but whpt he really wanted 
was an outlet for his restless activity ; a fresh climb, and not 


202 


BELLAMY 


the passive delight of sitting on a hill-top, for after all it 
was only a hill, and not a mountain. 

He realised with disgust that he was getting soft, and 
transferred his energies from the church guild to the Poly- 
technic; joined a running club and proved a worthy succes- 
sor of his father. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


S TILL Bellamy did not feel right. He was restless to 
a degree. His brain seemed to have got the fidgets, 
as one’s legs so often do, and to be forever stretching 
itself out, feeling after something. For the first time in 
his life he found a few spots on his face, and went to see 
a doctor, who declared that it was not measles — as he had 
feared — but merely an over-exuberance, lack of outlet; 
and advised more interests; somehow his system was get- 
ting clogged. 

He thought of women. During the stress of business he 
had given up his classes, and now he could not be bothered 
with them : besides Ada had become a nuisance. She was 
always hanging about ; insistently gay and coquettish, sullen, 
or pathetic; never for a moment natural. Whatever he 
needed, it was not a woman of her type, or the type which 
she procured him as pupils. 

One evening Walter was dressing to go out; and not 
being able to find a pair of boots which he needed, rang the 
bell. 

Some one came to the door and he shouted out to ask if 
they were clean. Then, after a short interval, heard a 
knock and answered, “ Come in,” making sure that it was 
Mrs. Burston. 

But it was Ada, flushed and nervous. She held the boots 
out at the length of her arm, and laughed. “ I did them 
myself,” she said, as though it was something wonderful. 
“ All by my little self.” 

Bellamy was frankly annoyed. He had just been shaving ; 
and was in his shirt and trousers, with his braces hang- 
ing down his back. He was going out to see about some 
important business, did not want to be upset. And some- 
how the girl did upset him ; though in a way that made him 
angry. 


203 


204 


BELLAMY 


“ You have no business here at all, Ada; you know your 
mother doesn’t like it.” 

“ That’s a nice way to speak when I’ve come up all them 
stairs twice over for you, an’ dirtied my fingers cleanin’ 
your beastly boots.” 

“ Thank you ; but don’t do it again.” 

“ Catch me being such a fool ! ” The girl swung round 
in a tantrum. Then hesitated, watching Bellamy tie his tie 
in the glass. 

The tips of his long fingers were coarse, the ugliest part 
of him : he was hurried and out of temper and made a poor 
job of it. Ada could see his frowning reflection. Its mas- 
culine impatience thrilled her; while the fact that he could 
bungle at anything gave her courage. 

“ Oh, let me do that, clumsy ! ” she said : put her hands 
on his broad shoulders and swung him round. 

Bellamy could feel her hot touch through his shirt, then 
her fingers trembling under his chin. But despite her 
nervousness, her trade had necessarily rendered her deft, 
and she tied the tie, a small bow, quickly and neatly; then 
hesitated. 

She was standing very close against him. Bellamy could 
feel the warmth of her body against his, the quick throb of 
her heart. 

“ Oh, Wally!” she said; pressed closer, shaking from 
head to foot, and raised her face. 

Instinctively Bellamy’s arms went round her. For a mo- 
ment he held her closer, with almost brutal roughness ; then 
he flung her on one side. 

“ Get out of this ! ” he said, and going to the door opened 
it. Then turned again to the girl — who had sunk against 
the bed, and now hung on to the rail, her face chalky, her 
mouth open, looking like a silly, frightened white rabbit — 
took her by the shoulders and propelled her towards it. As 
he put her out he shook her. 

“ You — thank your stars, you little fool, that you got 
hold of me; and not some brute as ’ud have ruined you as 
soon as look at you. Do you know where girls that do that 
sort of thing end, eh?” 

“ No,” breathed Ada, writhing beneath his heavy hand. 

“ Yes, you do, so don’t lie. They end in the gutter, an’ 


BELLAMY 


205 


that’s where you’ll end if you don’t look out. Ruin your- 
self and break your mother’s heart. Now, just you get out 
of this, and thank God that I’m the sort of fellow I am; 
with some respect for the house I live in.” 

It was insincere. But after all it was better than telling 
her that she did not attract him, exasperated him so that if 
he had given in to her evident desire he would have half 
killed her. The women he wanted were of the kind that 
one could pay and have done with. 

As it was he stood higher than ever upon the pedestal of 
Ada’s love — and it was love, as far as she was ever likely 
to know it. Thus when any fellow-worker designated men 
as “ all alike beasts,” she replied : 

“ Not all! ” and smiled and blushed at the thought of her 
secret knowledge; so that they were eager to know who 
“ he ” was ; surrounding her with questions and raillery. 

Then some one said : “ Oh, men are always the most 

particular and stand-offish with the girls they think the most 
of.” And this remark fed the flame, so that even Mrs. 
Burston, misled by her daughter’s glow and gaiety, made 
sure that the young people had come to some secret under- 
standing of their own. Thus Bellamy’s bacon and toast — 
he had dropped the affectation of the Continental breakfast 
as his salary rose — became crisper, his boots better polished, 
his whole comfort more carefully studied than it had ever 
been before. 

“ Though what it all leads to beats me,” remarked her 
husband bitterly. “ Why don’t ’ee get the banns called if 
’ee means to marry the girl, that’s what I want to know. 
An’ if ’ee don’t mean ter marry ’er why should I make a 
Christian slave o’ meself a’ cleanin’ o’ his gory boots?” 

“ Because it pays,” retorted Mrs. Burston, who did not 
intend to show all her hand. 

“Oh, it pays, does it? Well, let me tell you this — an’ 
I know, though I don’t expect to be listened to in my own 
’ouse — them forrunners ’ave as many wives as they likes. 
An’ the Pope don’t say nothing, just winks at it, as long as 
all the children is brought up Catholic. If I was to be- 
come ” 

“ There’s only one thing as I wish you’d become,” re- 
torted his wife, exasperated beyond all endurance — “an’ 


206 


BELLAMY 


that’s a dummy; though even then you’d be snappin’ your 
jaws an’ makin’ mouths at me, I reckon.” 

“ Oh, leave ’im alone, Mum,” interrupted Ada loftily. 
“ ’Ee only judges others by ’imself.” 

“ Gawd, one wife’s enough for me! ” ejaculated Burston, 
bitterly. 

“ But all men ain’t the brute beasts as ’ee’d make ’em out 
to be,” continued his daughter, supremely regardless of the 
interruption. 

“ An’ pray ’ow do you know that, Miss ? ” bellowed her 
father, back at his old trick of table banging. 

“ Oh, I know.” Ada nodded mysteriously, and blushed 
with bright eyes. “ I know.” 

“ Then you know a bloomin’ sight mere nor any straight 
female ’as any right to know.” 

“ Oh, I’m straight enough.” There was an air of soft 
triumph about the girl : she had been ready to give all to 
her lover, had he not shown a nature too noble to take ad- 
vantage of her weakness. 

What she did not realise was that if Walter Bellamy had 
really loved her she would not have seemed weak, or even 
attainable. 

But no woman could have quite satisfied Bellamy at this 
time. True, the stir in his blood was partly of sex. But 
that was the result and not the reason of his restlessness, 
which was to be found in his ambition ; his desire for some- 
thing new, and altogether engrossing. He was homesick, 
too ; not so much for the people as for the locality ; the wild, 
wind-swept open moors, round his native town. Sometimes 
he felt that he would give up everything, dare anything to 
stand once more on the sheer crag of The Cloud Rock ; see 
the valleys, curving beneath him, and feel the great, clear 
waste of air ; bathe in it as in an ocean, fill his lungs with it ; 
run with it and shout with it, as it gathered to a tempest, 
sweeping round in the cauldron of the encircling hills. 

The devil had shown his wit when he took Christ up into 
a high mountain to be tempted, knowing the heady exulta- 
tion of such places ; the only mistake being that — like most 
of his kind — he failed to recognise Divinity when he saw it. 

In London Christmas was again at hand, with all its sham 
jollities and gaieties. There were more shops than ever 


BELLAMY 


207 


full of useless trifles, more children’s bellies empty. The 
wind was not boisterous. It was merely venomous and in- 
humanly cold, a veritable old maid of a wind. 

For the time being the glamour had gone out of London, 
as far as Walter was concerned. 

His vanity forbade any slackness at the warehouse; but 
all personal force was missing from his work, and he was 
continually answering advertisements, searching the papers 
for something more congenial. 

For all this it was not until the very day when Ada 
pushed forward her piteous wares on to the shop-board of 
life that he really found what he wanted. 

An advertisement, which would have struck most people 
as shady, had appeared in several of the evening papers. 
Then with more boldness, in the better-class dailies. 

“ Wanted, at once. An exceptionally virile, gentlemanly 
man between twenty and thirty; with thorough knowledge 
of the world, and of business methods. Must possess con- 
siderable personal magnetism. Liberal salary.” 

There was no address given, merely a number ; while let- 
ters were to be sent to the newspaper office. 

After the third or fourth appearance of the advertisement 
Walter wrote — for it stimulated his curiosity — giving very 
little real information about himself : though making most 
of what he called his “ French origin,” and business ca- 
pacities : couching his letter in the flamboyant terms which 
such a thing seemed to call for. 

He and Gale speculated over it together; Gale declaring 
that it was from a matrimonial agency and just the sort of 
thing to suit his companion. 

The friendship between these two was a strange one. 
Francis Gale had the faculty of making Bellamy feel like a 
country bumpkin, coarse and commonplace; while he re- 
alised that the other man saw through him as no one else, 
excepting Jane, had ever done. Only with this difference: 
that while Jane liked him despite his flamboyant posing and 
prevarications — “ flim-flam ” as she called it — Gale liked 
him because of it: for he was piquant as a new cock-tail 
to the waster’s jaded appetite, a creature of infinite variety 
and amusement. 

Once having realised that it was no use pretending, Bel- 


2o8 


BELLAMY 


lamy found a certain sort of relief in the presence of one 
person with whom he could let himself go ; be perfectly nat- 
ural. After all it was no good putting on airs with Gale 
if he really wished to learn from him, as he did. For his 
ardent desire for improvement in the things which he knew 
the world values overcame his vanity. You might pick a 
pocket and merely be called a kleptomaniac; but if you 
dropped an “ h ” you were lost ; while seducing your neigh- 
bour’s wife was a minor sin compared to eating with your 
knife. 

The whole thing was in exact opposition to the teachings 
of the Primitive Methodists; but as these had never sunk 
very deeply into Walter’s mind, there was not so much to 
unlearn. 

As for Gale, he regarded Bellamy with a species of joy- 
ous bitterness, as the very quintessence of his kind ; without 
heart or conscience or morals, the prophet of the great re- 
ligion of “ getting on.” The only excuse for the elder man 
being, that — having sunk so low himself — he found a sort 
of comfort in the thought of another who — without any 
sinking at all — was lower still, in what he considered the 
very essentials of honour. 

“ It’s a matrimonial bureau ; or a Mormon propaganda, 
or a Piggott affair, or something to do with the White Slave 
traffic; just the sort of thing to suit you, Bellamy,” he de- 
clared. For he had been without brandy for a couple of 
days, and was in his most insolent mood. 

“ I don’t know why you should say that,” answered the 
other man smoothly. He was learning to speak quietly and 
evenly now, however much he might be moved ; for the mo- 
ment he became excited his vowels broadened : that was one 
of the things Gale had taught him. “ Considering what I 
told you about my landlady’s girl I don’t think that I’m 
quite the ravening beast you’d like to make me out to be.” 

Gale laughed harshly : — “ My dear Belle-amie, when 
you’re a blatant liar you’re rather gorgeous. But when 
you’re merely a hypocrite you become insupportable — and 
what’s worse — commonplace.” 

Walter did not answer. He was not sensitive, except 
when other people were by. Besides he had his uses for 
Gale, who — after wandering aimlessly round the room 


BELLAMY 


209 


for a few minutes, in his favourite fashion with his hands 
stuck into the tops of his trousers, smoking one of his host’s 
cigarettes — lounged out of the room. 

“ Anyhow,” remarked Bellamy scornfully, as the door 
closed behind his mentor : “ I do keep myself decently fit.” 
And rising he threw back his shoulders; stiffened his mus- 
cles, and lunged as if at some unseen enemy. “ By Jove ! 
but he is running to seed fast, poor devil ! ” 

To “ keep fit ” : and to send that ten shillings home to his 
mother each week. Herein lay his law and his gospel. 
Not much, but there are religious people who will tell you 
that some men recognise none at all. 

A couple of days later, when he had almost forgotten 
about the whole affair of the advertisement, there came a 
letter headed “ The Virgo Health and Beauty Parlour,” 
making an appointment for seven o’clock that evening, at 
an upper flat in one of the narrow streets off Bond Street. 

Seven o’clock on a winter’s day is an odd hour. Too 
early to suggest anything disreputable, yet late enough to 
hint at mystery; and Bellamy’s curiosity was quickened. 

There were no shops in the street, which was curtained 
and discreet: though at the number he had been given the 
door stood open in the charge of a page, the lower floor 
being occupied by a dentist, whose brass plate was fastened 
to one lintel. 

It was evident that Bellamy was expected, for, after ask- 
ing his name, the boy touched an electric bell and told him 
to go upstairs ; while almost at the same moment a door on 
the landing was opened, and he found another page waiting 
for him; so like the first that for a breath he wondered 
stupidly how he had got there. 

The staircase was thickly carpeted and closely hung with 
pictures, leading him to expect something rather frowsy 
and overcrowded. 

Thus, when the page opened a door and showed him into 
a large room, he was frankly astonished, recognising it at 
once as both beautiful and uncommon. . 

It was uniformly lighted by electricity — the bulbs con- 
cealed in the cornice of the ceiling — panelled in white, and 
carpeted in grey, while a wood fire burnt in a large grate, 
with steel fitments. 


210 


BELLAMY 


There were several deep chairs, heaped with cushions in 
different shades of purple, a couple of couches and small 
tables holding silver bowls of violets. But, apart from 
these, there was no ornament; neither were there any pic- 
tures on the walls, the white panelling being broken only by 
the door at which Bellamy had entered, and two more — 
one at either end. 

The room was empty. But after a moment or so a man 
came in through the door from the landing. A rather 
stout, well-groomed person of about forty, whose immacu- 
late frock-coat looked oddly out of keeping with the artistic 
air of the place. 

He made his visitor sit down, in the centre of the room 
so that the light fell full upon him ; asked him a few ques- 
tions and carried on a desultory conversation for several 
minutes. 

At first Bellamy felt impatient, this was not getting to 
business as he knew it. But after a while he realised that 
he was being politely sized up, that this was not the place 
for the brisk methods of the north, and put forward all his 
powers of charm. 

Presently the man got up and rang the bell, and, when the 
page appeared, asked for Madame Vallence; then went on 
quietly talking till a lady came in at one of the side doors : 
bowed to Walter and — after one long calm glance at him 
and an almost imperceptible nod to the other man — sat 
down with her hands folded on her lap and her eyes upon 
them. 

Then the man began to explain the nature of the busi- 
ness in which, connected as it was with some of the very 
highest of the aristocracy, privacy was imperative. The 
establishment was a Beauty Parlour of the highest, the most 
select, type. There were the usual rooms for massage and 
manicure, electricity and steaming; but there was more to 
it than that. The “ Virgo Health and Beauty Company ” 
endeavoured to build up sound bodies within beautiful skins. 
Better still, it aimed at influencing the mind: tuning it to 
such a pitch of serene purity that the whole nature was 
transfigured. Indeed it was a Temple of Beauty, and Ma- 
dame was its high-priestess. 

Bellamy bowed, raising his eyes as he bent his head — in 


BELLAMY 


211 


a way that he knew to be effective — and met Madame Val- 
lence’s glance full upon him. 

When Madame’s eyes were lowered she was all wistful 
softness and appeal. Her black hair was simply parted in 
the middle and drawn back in a knot at the nape of her 
neck, held with a couple of large silver pins; her face was 
almost colourless, and fine as a privet blossom; the brow 
and nose delicate, the mouth a little too thin lipped — the 
whole refinement of the face a trifle marred by the heavi- 
ness of the jaw. 

On this first evening she was dressed in a robe of two 
shades of purple; which gave the effect of flowing loosely 
and softly, yet retained its every line, following each curve 
of her figure; while round the wrists and the back of the 
neck it was edged with a deep ruff of dark fur. She wore 
a wedding ring, but no other jewellery; and her hands, on 
which her gaze once more rested, were singularly white and 
well cared for. 

But that one moment in which their glances met had told 
Bellamy much. Madame’s eyes were dark, so devoid of 
depth that the retina appeared flattened, as in certain rep- 
tiles; while they were absolutely white. All the time he 
knew her Bellamy never saw them express any feeling be- 
yond tolerant amusement. She did everything, chose the 
very colour of her clothes, the fashion and cut — with no 
hard or decided lines — to give a certain negative effect; 
but her eyes betrayed her. 

Perhaps she knew it. Later on he realised how per- 
sistently she kept them lowered, except when she pressed 
home any suggestion — and she always suggested, never 
commanded — or wished to make herself felt. 

Rising Bellamy stood with his back to the fire, and one 
arm stretched out behind him along the mantel-piece. It 
was an attitude of curious ease for any one to take in a 
strange house ; particularly for a young man who was there 
in search of a situation. But Bellamy realised that he was 
more effective standing than sitting. Besides he had to 
stand : the whole thing was so exciting and mysterious. The 
cold calculation of Madame’ s eyes had thrown down such 
a challenge to him that he could barely keep from swinging 
to and fro on his tiptoes, as he used to do in his Sunday 


212 BELLAMY 

boots : but for all that he spoke slowly and remembered his 
vowels. 

“ It seems to me, if I may say so, that you are doing a 
great work ; for people are all swaddled up with ugliness — 
their laws, their loves, their clothes, their houses, their re- 
ligion — are all ugly!” If Gale could have been there he 
would have recognised himself in every word, every in- 
tonation, of this outburst ; for Bellamy used everybody and 
everything : — “ Above all their religion : their whole doc- 
trine of renunciation, of giving up all that makes for the 
joy and beauty and abandonment of life. To begin with 

they choose a religion which was first made for slaves ” 

A bitter young Jew in Brown, Son and MacCullagh’s — 
whose intellect beat itself out like a wild bird against the 
narrow cage of conventional commerce — had taught him 
that phrase. “ What people want is freedom,” he went on. 
“ And freedom, as we know, comes only through beauty and 
the love of beauty.” 

Walter Bellamy bent a little forward, his eyes full on 
Madame’s enigmatical face. 

The man might pay the salaries, but that came later: it 
was Madame whom he now had to impress. Again she 
raised her eyes under his glance, and his spirit soared joy- 
ously. She was actually wondering how much of all this 
flummery he really believed. 

“ Beauty is truth, truth beauty.” 

“ That is all we know on earth or ever need to know.” 

It was a remnant of his elocution lessons. That was the 
great thing about learning of any sort, it always came in. 
“ One could scarcely imagine any more necessary adjunct 
to religion than truth, which is synonymous with beauty, 
or a more fitting priestess for both than Madame: cela va 
sans dire ” he went on, and bowed ; while Madame bent her 
graceful dark head, and the gentleman in the frock-coat got 
up and bowed also. 

“ Your duties,” he said, “ would commence at ten o’clock 
each morning. The establishment usually closes at six, but 
twice a week it is open till ten or perhaps later. You would 
have to interview the ladies who come here ; and book their 
appointments and take their names. The names are not 
always perfectly correct. We shall depend on you to as- 


BELLAMY 


213 


certain little things of that sort ; and never to forget a face. 
For special treatment you would pass them on to Madame 
— who advises them on points of dress, and on general — 
a-h ” he hesitated a moment and Madame Vallence sup- 

plied the words he needed. 

“ Personal charm.” 

“ Yes, that is it, personal charm — or to our young ladies, 
who are in charge of the different departments; a list of 
their names and duties will be given you. However it is 
not merely for physical reasons that ladies come here: but 
for — for ” 

“ Psychological?” suggested Madame softly. 

“ Psychological — yes — psychological reasons. They are 
wearied out with the continual round of artificial pleasures. 
They need rest, congenial companionship, in harmonious 
surroundings where they are certain of not being disturbed. 
I believe that you would have a certain amount of influ- 
ence, and we should expect you to use it. Sometimes a 
cigarette, a little quiet talk with you in this charming room 
might do all that is required. For Madame is not merely 
a high-priestess, she is an apostle of humanity. Yes, an 
apostle of humanity ! ” he repeated, rolling the phrase round 
on his tongue as though he enjoyed the taste of it. “ Is 
that not so, Madame? The minds of our patients ” 

“ I think,” put in Walter very softly, “ that it is not so 
much their minds that most women are interested in, as 
their souls.” 

Suddenly he laughed, almost boyishly: for he had once 
again caught Madame’s eyes, seen the corners of them 
wrinkle with amusement, and realised that she did not ex- 
pect him to believe but to impress others with a sense of his 
belief. That, apart from her professional pride, her money- 
making instinct, there was in her much the same feeling as 
he found in himself : the sense of it all being a rather heady 
sort of game, in which her clients were the pawns, to be 
moved when and where and how she wished. — That she was 
not so much proud of her skill as enchanted with the folly 
of others. 

“ Women seem to get drunk with the thought of their 
own souls,” he went on, and remembered how in Edge the 
Methodist mothers and daughters had rocked themselves 


214 


B E L L A M Y 


to and fro in anguish or ecstasy: how much more quickly 
they were kindled than the men, who would discuss any 
portion of their anatomy rather than that immortal self 
over which the women were continually brooding, and in 
which they found their one excitement; their one outlet 
from the dismal daily routine of house and mill. 

“ You are right there, that is a thing which you must 
never forget : a woman is as proud of her soul as she is of 
her pet dog. Your strongest point of influence will lie in 
remembering this — particularly with the women we have 
to deal with,” said Madame softly. She had seemed to take 
so big a part in the discussion — her silence, her quick 
glances had been so eloquent — it was difficult to believe 
that apart, from the two words, which she had supplied — 
this was the first time she had spoken. “ Just now women 
are wearing their souls like their figures — lightly corseted. 
But still they need pampering, despite all the so-called lib- 
erty of the present day.” 

She rose as she spoke, and stood for a moment looking 
Bellamy over from tip to toe, with such searching intensity 
that he felt as though he were stripped for a race : “I think 
you will do,” she said at last. “ You look strong. Many 
people in these days are physical wrecks. We find mere 
bodily strength and vitality carries great weight ; ” here she 
paused and glanced at the man, who had also risen, as if to 
bid him take up his cue. 

“ Perhaps it would be as well to show Mr. Bellamy over 
the house,” he suggested smoothly. “ It would help him to 
understand his duties better.” 

“ But first,” Walter’s jaw set, he no longer felt inclined to 
swing on his tiptoes, was back on firm earth again: — 
“ wouldn’t it be better to come to some agreement about my 
salary? ” 

“ Oh ! ” ejaculated Madame softly. And turning to the 
fire stood with one purple suede-clad foot turned sideways 
on the fender: evidently such sordid considerations were 
not for her. 

. The man appeared to hesitate for a moment ; gently tap- 
ping upon his highly polished nails with a small ivory-backed 
file, with which he had been touching them up through the 
greater part of the interview. “ We usually give two 


BELLAMY 


215 


pounds a week,” he admitted at last. “ But in this case we 
might stretch a point and say — well two pounds ten.” 

Walter Bellamy laughed, and picked up his hat which 
lay upon one of the cushioned chairs. “ Then, I think I 
had better say good night. I am sorry we have wasted 
each other’s time. Though in my case the pleasure of meet- 
ing Madame ” he paused with a smile and a shrug. 

Then bowed, and was turning to the door when the man re- 
marked : — 

u Three pounds,” as patly as an auctioneer ; and for the 
first time Walter realised the mirror over the mantel-shelf. 

“ I will come for six pounds a week,” he said ; “ not for 
less. I’m sorry, for I believe I could do what you require ; 
but I have a good billet in the City and I should not care to 
throw it up, merely for loss.” His voice was pleasantly 
business-like; for the moment he was himself and no one 
else. 

“ But you know nothing ! ” protested the man. 

Walter smiled softly : — “ Don’t you think it is safer than 
knowing too much? To start with anyhow.” 

“ It’s out of the question. Six pounds a week ! ” 

“ May I ask exactly to whom I should be responsible in 
this business, look for instructions? To Madame or to 
yourself ? ” 

“ I am in no way connected with it,” answered the man 
hastily ; “ excepting as Madame’s financial agent. I have a 
business of my own which entirely engrosses my attention 
during the day.” Later on Bellamy discovered that he was 
identical with that Mr. Claude Hope, who bore so many mys- 
terious letters after his name, and practised dentistry on 
the ground-floor. Also that his real name was Hopkins, 
and he was Madame’s husband. “ Though of course,” he 
went on smoothly, “ any help I can give in the evening, or 
in my leisure time, is always at Madame’s service.” 

“ I think,” interrupted Walter rather brusquely ; “ that 
as the business belongs to Madame, it is Madame who ought 
to decide whether or not I am likely to be worth what I 
ask.” 

Madame shrugged her shoulders, as though the question 
failed to interest her. “ It seems a lot, doesn’t it ? ” she re- 
marked doubtfully, eyeing Walter once more with a glance 


2l6 


BELLAMY 


which seemed to see through all his outer covering of clothes 
and civilisation. Then allowing her glance to travel slowly 
upwards till it rested upon his face, when — catching the 
smiling decision in his eyes — she nodded. 

“ Oh, very well, supposing we try it. And now ; there 
are certain things about which I am obliged to be very par- 
ticular, dress for instance/* For all her softness it was 
evident that Madame Vallence was sufficiently a business 
woman to leave a subject when once it had been decided; 
and, putting one white hand on Walter’s sleeve she delib- 
erately felt the material of his blue serge suit between her 
finger and thumb. “ Stuff like this is too harsh, and I 
should prefer grey : say rather dark grey flannel ; you could 
keep it here and change when you came — and a purple tie.*’ 

“ And purple socks,** put in Walter. 

“ And purple socks,” Madame’s eyes were shot with little 
points of light; and again the corners wrinkled, with that 
faint cynical air of amusement which could scarcely be 
called a smile, for it did not even touch her smooth, closely 
folded lips. 

“ At the expense of the firm ? ** supplemented Walter 
gently. 

Again Madame’s eyes met his, and he tried the effect of 
the stare which had brought him such fame, years before in 
Edge. 

“ I think that will make it worth while, it is just the sort 
of thing we want,” she remarked enigmatically. And 
turned to the other man. 

“ Will you make out an agreement for Mr. Bellamy? ” 

“ A week’s notice on either side, and weekly payments,” 
put in Walter. 

“ As you will,” assented Madame carelessly, with that 
flicker of humour in her eyes. “ We have to give a quar- 
ter’s notice for the house ” She hesitated, as if won- 

dering whether it were necessary to explain herself more 
fully, and then turned to the door. 

“ Now I will show you over the house, while the agree- 
ment is being drawn out.” 

On one side of the room in which Walter had been re- 
ceived was another, divided by partitions for hairdressing ; 
and a small waiting-room. Half-way down the landing was 


BELLAMY 


217 


an office, which was Madame’s special sanctum, and from 
which she could command a full view of the stairs. Above 
that were rooms for massage, manicure and electric treat- 
ment ; and on the top floor four tiny apartments, each simply 
fitted with a big chair, a table or so and a deep couch ; the 
floors softly carpeted, the windows hung with long straight 
curtains. 

Throughout the entire house the prevailing colours were 
greys and purples, and there were flowers in all the rooms ; 
but no pictures or ornaments, while, even more noticeable 
than the dainty perfection of the place was the stillness of it. 

At first Bellamy could not make out what was so strange 
about the house — which seemed heavy with the sense of 
listening, of waiting for something to happen, keeping one’s 
pulse forever on the edge of a sudden leap. Then he re- 
alised that it was this very quality, which is the last one ex- 
pects to meet in the heart of London — the inexplicable 
silence : the shutting away of all the rattle and roar to which; 
he had become accustomed. 

Madame caught his expression and glanced at him with 
raised brows. 

“ It’s the quiet,” he explained. “ One’s waiting all the 
time for it to break ; it doesn’t seem like London.” 

“ There are all double windows, very carefully fitted,” she 
answered; then went on, pulling a curtain aside to show 
him. “ These rooms are merely to rest in. You will have 
nothing to do with them.” She hesitated in the odd way 
she had of allowing a pause to take the place of words: 
then continued smoothly. “Ladies can see their — friends 
here if they wish. There is a lift, and speaking-tubes to 
the basement, and we serve tea,” she added. Then turning 
out the lights led him on to the landing again and showed 
him the lift. 

“ You see, any one can work it. There is a separate exit 
from the house connected with it; and thus there is no ne- 
cessity for ladies to meet each other on the stairs unless 
they choose. They may come here as safely as to the con- 
fessional. You must remember that in a great lady’s own 
house there is no privacy ; if she as much as locks her door 
her maid wonders why and reports it to the whole house- 
hold. She is surrounded by servants who are so many 


2l8 


BELLAMY 


spies. She can never — as a working woman does — have 
her house to herself, when once her husband has gone out 
of it. Here my clients may come and take the necessary 
rest and relaxation in absolute security ; leaving behind them 
all their troubles, both of mind and body.” 

Walter Bellamy was over eighteen months with the Virgo 
Health and Beauty Parlour. But never during all that 
time did Madame refer to it as anything excepting a means 
of social and physical regeneration. 

Downstairs he signed the agreement for six pounds a 
week “ To commence ” — when Walter came to this word 
he took his stylo pen and — with a flourish of sheer flam- 
boyant vanity — crossed it out, neatly substituting “ begin.” 

“ Excuse me, but we don’t use that word in our world/’ 
he said, and Mr. Claude Hope stared. But Bellamy took 
no count of him ; his laughing glance was full on Madame, 
and again he saw that she had caught his meaning. 

“ You’re quite right,” she remarked gravely : “ It’s as 

well to get into the way of humouring their little fancies, 
even when they are not by. I think you said in your letter 
that you spoke French ; it will all count.” 

There was no mention of the grey flannal suit in the 
agreement ; but Bellamy felt that there were certain things 
in which Madame Vallence could be trusted. And he was 
right. For after he had signed it she told him to wait ; and 
scribbled a note which she put into an envelope and handed 
to him still open. 

“ If you will take that to Beecham and Saunders — they 
have a shop in Sackville Street, but I am sending you to the 
City — they will fit you out. They are the best tailors in 
London; and they know me, and know how I like things 
done. Good night, Mr. Bellamy.” 

“ Good night.” Bellamy touched the smooth white hand 
held out to him ; bowed to Mr. Hope — who was irrationally 
biting the nails over which he had been spending so much 
time — then took his departure. 


CHAPTER XXXV 


U NDER the first branching gas-lamp Bellamy drew 
Madame’s note out of the envelope; read it, and 
realised that she could be generous as well as just. 
For it contained a carefully specified order for the grey 
suit, four white silk shirts, soft turned-down collars, socks 
and ties; all complete. 

Bellamy took off his hat and passed his hand thoughtfully 
over his smooth dark head, upon which the crest — which 
had so troubled him during his boyhood — was at last 
tamed. He had planned to have it cut next day, but there 
and then he changed his mind. 

“ It will be better a little longer,” he decided, and laughed. 
Then, raising his umbrella hailed a passing taxi. It was 
Gale who had told him always — however set fair the 
weather might be — to carry an umbrella instead of a stick 
with a frock-coat. Really he had learnt a lot from that dis- 
reputable acquaintance of his. 

As to the taxi. Why not? One did not work for the 
sake of working, or for the sake of saving — a pastime for 
fools — but for the sake of capturing some of the joys of 
youth, before it was too late; eating good food before the 
digestion and teeth were both gone; wearing fine clothes 
while one could still show them off to advantage ; keeping 
fit, which is not possible when one is underfed and over- 
worked. 

As the taxi dodged its way out into Regent Street, across 
Piccadilly Circus and down the Haymarket — then sailed 
triumphantly along the broad way through St. James' Park 
— Walter’s whole being was on tiptoe again. Life was 
such a lark! Full of such infinite possibilities. Madame 
with her odd flickers of humour was beyond compare. And 
what a quarry, all those overdressed, over refined, and ex- 
travagantly beautiful women — whom he had so often seen 
coming out of the theatres or shops — would prove to him. 

219 


220 


BELLAMY 


Women whom he somehow held responsible for Jane’s life; 
spent spooling silk to stitch their fine clothes with. 

For Walter Bellamy could be virtuously indignant. Be- 
sides, without doubt, Jane got her share of that ten shil- 
lings a week. 

Back in his own rooms, he found Gale crouching over the 
fire waiting for him. 

“ I thought you were never coming ! It was all I 

could do to make that landlady of yours — she hates me, 
Belle-amie, looks on me as the evil genius of your life — 
bring more coal; and she absolutely refused point-blank to 
get supper. What the devil were you doing ? ” He spoke 
petulantly, unreasonably ; for though it was his night to give 
Bellamy a lesson, he had a good fire to sit by — which was 
more than he would have got at home — and if his pupil 
was late it was his own loss. 

But the young man did not feel in a mood for quarrelling, 
and ringing the bell he hung up his coat and hat ; then, mov- 
ing over to the fire, stood in front of it with his hands be- 
hind his back ; warming himself and looking down at Gale, 
who was bent double in his chair, coughing. 

Poor old Gale! Not much Strength and Beauty about 
Gale. Bellamy wondered what the Virgo Society could do 
for him and laughed. Such a friend was worth preserving, 
if only for the pleasant sense of contrast he produced: he 
was humming, some catchy music-hall air, as his thought 
played around the other man. 

“You seem very full of yourself to-night;” Francis 
Gale raised his pale eyes to Bellamy’s face, with a bitter 
stare : — “ Suppose you’ve dined ! ” 

“ No, and I’m famished, clemmed as they say up north. 
We’ll have supper together,’’ he added — and as Mrs. 
Burston entered with the cloth gave the order. 

“For two, please: any cold stuff you have in the house, 
we’re starving. And ” with a sudden flame of gen- 

erosity, he flung down a shilling on the table, “ get Mr. Burs- 
ton to step out and fetch us a drop of brandy, will you ? ” 

The woman hesitated; her usually good-tempered face 
sulky. She detested Gale, believing that if it was not for 
his influence Walter would settle down and fix things up 
with Ada, whose gaiety was growing rather hectic. “ I let 


BELLAMY 


221 

the rooms to one gentleman, with attendance,” she began, 
“ and understood as I was to be asked to wait on one gen- 
tleman, not on two ; and be paid ” 

“ You’re paid for everything you do, and jolly well too.” 
Bellamy swung his coat-tails over his arms and put his 
hands in his pockets. After all it was a good thing Gale 
had been there ; he had kept up the fire which Mrs. Burston 
— when she was in one of these moods — occasionally let 
out. Anyhow he was not going to stand any nonsense from 
her. 

“If there’s anything extra you know you’ve only got to 
ask for it. But if you don’t like me or my friend I’ll go else- 
where ; that’s flat ! There’s plenty of rooms to be had.” 

Mrs. Burston gave him a frightened glance. “ I’m sure, 

Mr. Bellamy, I’m only too ” she began. Then her voice 

broke, and she put her apron to her eyes. “ I never ex- 
pected as you’d turn on me, speak to me in this ’ere ” 

“I speak as I feel — hungry and thirsty,” said Walter, 
laughing. “ Come, Mrs. Burston, get us our supper and 
let’s have an end of this.” 

The landlady picked up the shilling. “ I’ll get Burston 
to go to the ‘ Red Lion ’ ; they keeps better stuff there than 
round the corner,” she said; and leaving the room closed 
the door gently after her. 

“If I’d knuckled in to her she’d have banged it ! ” re- 
marked Bellamy complacently — sitting down and beginning 
to unlace his boots — “ throw me those slippers, Gale, will 
you?” 

“ My dear Belle-amie, your knowledge of the Eternal 
Feminine is beyond words,” remarked Gale, without an at- 
tempt to move; his face already a little flushed, his eyes 
bright at the thought of staying the craving which possessed 
him. 

Bellamy laughed as he threw his boots towards the door, 
and stretched out his hand for his slippers — which were, 
after all, nearer to him than to Gale — placed ready by the 
fire, for he was beginning to insist on the maximum of at- 
tendance. “ I want to know something of them in the new 
job I’ve taken on,” he said. And rising, stood with his 
back to the fire while he gave a triumphant description of 
his evening’s work. 


222 


BELLAMY 


But Gale did not seem impressed. Mrs. Burston had 
been up again with a relay of dishes, but the brandy had not 
yet come and he was restless : wandering up and down the 
room, picking up trifles and putting them down again, his 
nerves all on edge for the sound of returning footsteps. 

“ It doesn’t seem much of a thing,” he remarked vaguely 
— as Bellamy came to a pause — his head on one side, in a 
way which gave him the look of a dog listening, all a-quiver, 
for its master’s footsteps. 

“ How do you mean ? Six pounds a week’s not to be 
sneezed at, I can tell you that.” 

“ For fooling women ! ” answered the other contemptu- 
ously ; “ I’d rather run a hot potato can at a street corner.” 

“ I dare say ; but you’re not me, you see. I’ve got my 
own self-respect to think of,” answered Bellamy. And 
added, shrewdly enough, “ It seems to me that in this world 
it’s a choice between respectin’ yourself and respectin’ other 
people. You’ve respected other people and not yourself and 
see where it’s landed you ! ” 

“ There are different ideas of self-respect.” 

“ Well, my idea’s to keep my end up, and out of debt, and 
myself well and fit. And if women choose to pay to make 
fools of themselves it’s their concern and not mine.” 

“ You’d better have stuck to the City.” 

“ Foolin’ still, only on a larger scale.” 

“ But of a more decent sort. You’ll find Ah!” 

Gale broke off suddenly, a crimson spot flaming on either 
cheekbone; “thank God! Here’s the stuff — at last.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


N EXT morning Bellamy handed in his resignation to 
Messrs. Brown, Son and MacCullagh. It was re- 
ported almost immediately to old Mr. Brown, who 
had a personal interview with him, and asked him if he had 
anything to complain of. 

The concession involved in the question stirred the older 
clerks more than it did Walter Bellamy — for they were 
more conscious of the assumption of inviolable well-being 
which enwrapped the whole firm, as with an atmosphere, 
and realised that he was being treated with very special 
consideration. 

But Walter had no complaints to make. He had merely 
“ Found a situation more congenial to my essentially literary 
and artistic ego.” He actually said this to Mr. Brown him- 
self ; for one of the clerks, quite incapable of originating 
such a phrase, reported it. But for all that he was very po- 
lite and charmingly deferential; having realised the disad- 
vantage of leaving a blurred track behind him. 

During his luncheon hour, that very day, Walter went 
down to Leadenhall Street, sought out the master tailor to 
whom Madame Vallence had referred him, and ordered the 
grey flannel suit. 

As it chanced he was kept a few moments waiting to see 
the particular material he wished for ; and looking over the 
piles of fashion plates and patterns which strewed the table 
in the waiting-room, came across a large reel of delicate, 
mole-tinted, button-hole twist, left there by some careless 
fitter. 

He was turning it thoughtfully round and round between 
his fingers and thumb, when Mr. Beecham — who himself 
superintended the City shop and workrooms, leaving the 
Sackville Street business to his more showy partner — en- 
tered with a roll of grey flannel over his arm. 

223 


BELLAMY 


224 

But Walter Bellamy did not hear him; neither did he 
hear the sound of the traffic in the street outside. 

All he heard was the pad, pad of bare feet, and the buz- 
zing whirr of a wheel. 

His imagination had been somewhat deadened by the re- 
alities of London, which had given his eyes and ears and 
practical brain power too much to feed on. 

But suddenly, at the feel of the smooth stuff between his 
fingers, his imagination was again let loose : so vividly that 
memory seemed vitalised to reality. The pale January sun- 
shine, creeping languidly through the high window, sickened 
him. He felt the sweat prick out upon his skin ; while his 
heart was somewhere up in his throat; his breath came in 
short, thick gasps, and once more he was running. 

Shoulders and elbows back, for old Jimmy Clarke had 
looped a thread of silk round his heart and stomach and 
lungs and was drawing them out of him. 

Mr. Beecham spoke, but Walter took no notice, though 
the man’s voice must have brought him half-way back, 
shaken him free from Jimmy Clarke ; for, unloosing the end 
of the silk from the nick which held it, he pulled it out a few 
inches and examined it closely. 

It was springy, and smooth, and tightly twisted. 

Suddenly Bellamy realised the other’s presence and 
turned to him. “ This silk is hand twisted.” 

The tailor looked surprised. But he had been a journey- 
man before he was a master, and knew the details of his 
trade. 

“ You’re right there, Sir,” he answered ; “ we make a rule 
of always using the very best of everything.” 

“ Do you know what it’s done with ? — It’s done with 
boys’ guts; with the hearts and souls and lives of them. 
Don’t ever use it for my clothes, that’s all. And if you’ve 
got any humanity in you don’t use it at all.” 

For once he did not consciously speak for effect, though 
the habit was there. He thought afterwards how much he 
might have made of the subject: how far his protest — 
properly started in the Sackville Street establishment — 
might have carried : for he seldom forgot that the Queen’s 
mother had taken a very real interest in the silk industry ; 
while he visualised himself as climbing to Royal — or even 


BELLAMY 225 

more exclusive — circles by means of his knowledge; as 
others had done before him. 

But at the moment he was too shaken to think of impress- 
ing anybody — felt indeed much as he had done when he 
had sat in the backyard, during that first dinner-hour of his 
running days — and was glad to get away, and out in the 
fresh air. 

Another task which Bellamy had set himself for that day, 
a task to be approached with an almost religious fervour 
and glow, was a visit to the girl typist whom he had sup- 
planted, to acquaint her with his decision, so that she might 
have a chance of getting back into her old place before any 
one else snapped it up. 

Walter's fancy would have dressed the part in armour 
and mounted him upon a tall white charger. 

But failing this, having got the young lady’s address in 
Putney from one of the other clerks, he buttoned himself up 
to the chin in a waterproof, and went straight on from busi- 
ness ; on the top of a Walham Green ’bus ; for in this par- 
ticular — to wit, his love of the open air — Walter Bellamy 
was eminently wholesome. 

The ’bus made its way more or less steadily along the 
Strand. But it quickened its pace down Parliament Place 
and Victoria Street. And once having passed the station 
swung along at a great rate ; making nothing of the crowds 
in King’s Road: or even in North End Road, where the 
street was narrowed to a mere passage by the heaped stalls, 
with their flaming kerosine torches : for no privately owned 
vehicle is more plutocratic in its ways than a motor-’bus. 

Just past the church Walter changed as he had been di- 
rected. It was a cold evening with a mist blowing that was 
almost rain. But somehow it exhilarated him; as did the 
crowded, swaying ’bus. The fashion in which it forged its 
wicked way through the crowded streets and swung round 
corners ; the bustle and lights ; and then the sudden quiet of 
Putney, with its trees, its small smug villas and air of se- 
crecy. It all pleased him so that he was sorry when — in- 
stead of keeping with it on its course through Barnes and 
Richmond — he had to get off at the corner of Alfred Place, 
where Miss Dyer lived ; though it was some consolation to 
remember the noble mission on which he was bent. 


226 


BELLAMY 


The street was badly lighted, and it was some time before 
he found number twelve ; which was, in itself, so dark, that 
at first he thought it must be empty. But the door was 
opened in response to his first ring, and the little typist her- 
self stood in the hall-way shading a candle in one hand. 

l< How do you do, Miss Dyer. I called to see you; may 
I come in? ” said Walter. Then, as she leaned forward and 
peered at him, added : — “ My name’s Bellamy — perhaps 
you don’t remember me ? ” 

“Oh, yes, I think — from Brown and Mac Cullagh, isn’t 
it? Will you come in? Mind the step. All the lodgers 
are out so we didn’t trouble to light the gas,” she added; 
and led him through a narrow hall and down a step to a 
tiny room, heated by a kerosine stove, where sat an old lady 
whom she introduced as her mother: indifferently enough, 
for she did not seem particularly glad to see him, or im- 
pressed by his coming, or the fresh air of vigorous man- 
hood which he brought with him into the overcrowded place. 
He had seldom felt more vital and glowing with generosity : 
the knight-errant, the god from the car. And yet for a 
moment the whole affair seemed to have fallen flat. 

The old lady, who wore a black crocheted shawl over her 
shoulders, and was very like a shrew-mouse — with a long 
nose, wide at the base and pointed at the end, and a pe- 
culiarly receding chin — merely bowed very stiffly and asked 
him to sit down; while Miss Dyer stood tapping with her 
fingers on the back of a large album which lay upon the 
round centre table — almost as if she wished him gone — 
her head a little bent, her glance sullen. She still looked ill, 
but with the settled ill-health of a person who lives a life 
devoid of animation and fresh air; while her skin, her 
mouse-coloured hair and eyes were much the same colour. 

She was badly dressed and the back of her blouse was 
gaping. 

Walter remembered how, in the bad times at Edge, or in 
the bad mills — where conditions and pay were below the 
average — despair always seemed to take the girls by the 
backs of their blouses. Thus the sight of Miss Dyer’s 
gaping button-holes quickened his conception of himself as 
a knight-errant almost more than anything else could have 
done. For it was only when Walter Bellamy felt back , that 


BELLAMY 


227 

he felt at all: as is the case with so many rather heartless 
sentimentalists. 

“ I came to tell you I am leaving Brown and MacCul- 
lagh’s,” he announced, in his pleasantest manner. 

“ Indeed,” answered Miss Dyer in a tone of flat indiffer- 
ence; though Walter noticed that she flushed beneath her 
thick skin; while the old lady laid her knitting in her lap 
and tightened her indefinite mouth till it was a mere fold of 
flesh. 

“ Yes ; I thought I ought to tell you, in case you felt well 
enough to take up your old work.” 

“ I felt well enough thirteen months back.” 

“ Surely,” Bellamy leant forward with his hands lightly 
clasped between his knees and looked up in her face : — 
“Surely you don’t — you can’t — blame me for that? If 
I’d known — if I’d thought for a moment that you were 
coming back. Oh ! ” he rose suddenly and thrust his hands 
into his pockets ; — “ you don’t mean that you think so badly 
of me as to believe I’d willingly keep any woman out of her 
billet.” 

“Then if you didn’t know why are you here now?” 
Martha Dyer raised her dull eyes and looked straight into 
Bellamy’s face: “Why are you here now,” she repeated, 
“ if you thought I was dead, or didn’t want to go back? ” 

Walter gave a little gesture, as if of despair at her unrea- 
sonableness. 

“ I don’t say I didn’t know. But not till too late — when 
I was so involved that I couldn’t get out of it. You know 
that the firm went through a very critical time. I was in 
honour bound — so to speak — to stand by them. Honi 
soit qui mal y pense.” 

“ Oh, yes, I know all that,” said Miss Dyer wearily. 

“ Anyhow it’s too late now ! ” put in the old lady ; and 
closed her lips tightly again, as if to bite off the end of the 
subject. 

“ I don’t know — Is it ? You see the post is vacant again, 
I leave in a week’s time. And I thought that — but per- 
haps I’m mistaken ; perhaps you’ve something that you like 
better?” 

“ No, I’ve not got anything yet. It’s all very well for 
girls who have nothing excepting dress to spend their money 


228 


BELLAMY 


on ; but I’m better off at home, unless I get fair pay. Ma’s 
paralysed in the legs you see.” 

This last piece of information sounded oddly discon- 
nected; but Walter Bellamy followed the thread. For, 
with the poor illness does not mean bodily suffering alone — 
he remembered the tiny Irwin boy’s lame leg, which was 
really a tubercular bone, and all that might have been done 
to save his life if any one had had any money to do any- 
thing. 

“ That’s hard for her, hard for you both,” he said. 

“ So there’s two to keep,” went on Miss Dyer in her dull 
matter-of-fact voice. “ If I get a good billet it’s worth 
paying a servant to look after Ma and the lodgers. If I 
don’t it isn’t. I got two pounds a week at Brown and 
MacCullagh’s just the same as a man.” 

“ Ah, yes,” answered Bellamy ; hoping that no one would 
tell her of his four pounds. 

“ Anyhow it’s too late now. Things don’t go twice the 
same way ; mark my words for it ! ” put in the old lady 
again. Then, as Miss Dyer said nothing more — and the 
affair seemed to have terminated — Walter rose, feeling 
oddly snubbed, and took up his hat. 

“ Well, I’ll say good-bye. I’m sorry to have intruded on 
your time; but I meant well.” Suddenly he put out his 
hand to the girl. He was hanged if he was going to be 
beaten by a little thing like that, with a sallow skin. “ Come, 
shake hands, and try not to think too hardly of me. It’s 
the fortune of war you know, and remember I came out 
to tell you the very day I sent in my resignation.” 

“ Yes, I’m sure you meant kindly,” said Miss Dyer. Then 
added — •“ Ma, Mr. Bellamy’s going.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Mrs. Dyer, and closed her lips very tightly, 
as though that was the end of Mr. Bellamy: once and for 
ail. 

The typist followed him out into the narrow hall with 
the candle, and stood awkwardly by while he unlatched the 
door. 

“ You mustn’t mind Ma, she’s not quite — she’s apt to 
be a little childish sometimes. That’s why I can’t leave her 
alone — that and her legs.” 

“ No offence meant and none taken,” said Bellamy 


BELLAMY 


229 

heartily. For with people like this he dropped back into 
phrases belonging to his old life : phrases which he would not 
have used for anything before Gale. There had been an- 
other expression : — “ The likes of that,” which he had 
found the greatest difficulty in breaking himself of. 

As he stood on the step buttoning his coat up to his chin 
— for it was raining now in earnest — Miss Dyer spoke 
again. 

“ Mr. Bellamy.” 

“ Y ? s ” 

“ Did you really come out here on purpose to — to give 
me a chance of getting back ? ” 

“ Of course I did.” 

“ Not just to see — to find out how — how I was getting 
on, how far I was down?” 

“ Miss Dyer ! Did you really believe that for a mo- 
ment? If you only knew the feeling with which I came. 
How overjoyed I was at the thought that I might make 
some sort of reparation.” 

“ And yet you stole my billet,” said the girl ; as if the 
words were forced from her by an ugly obstinacy beyond 
her control. 

“ I think that’s a very cruel thing to say,” answered Wal- 
ter. 

“ I know it is ; but life’s cruel, everything’s cruel ! And 
after all, suppose you did steal it, it was only in the way of 
business. I had no right to speak so. But if you only 
knew what these months have been like. Searching the 
papers, wasting ’bus fares going to the City for nothing. 
And the housework ! I hate housework ; I don’t do it well, 
never seem to get it done. Oh, I can’t expect you to un- 
derstand. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been up against 
things in the sort of way I have, but it’s worn my nerves 
and temper to fiddle-strings.” 

“ Well now, just to show I’m forgiven, will you go and 
see Brown and MacCullagh to-morrow ? ” asked Bellamy 
persuasively. 

“ Yes, I will, I promise. And — and I will say this, I 
believe you meant kindly in calling; and I thank you. I’m 
sure I’m very much obliged.” The words came out with as 
much difficulty as though their utterance was a real physical 


230 


BELLAMY 


effort. For nature had not been kind to Miss Dyer ; it had 
made her plain and undersized, and delicate and inarticulate, 
without one touch of charm to balance these defects. 

But Walter Bellamy — brilliant and charming in his own 
rather florid fashion — knowing something of such lives 
as hers, was seized with one of his odd impulses of gener- 
osity. 

“Look here. Let’s be friends. Get on your hat and 
coat and come up Town with me and have some dinner, 
and we’ll talk things over. It’s only a little after seven. It 
will be too late for a theatre, but we can get in the best end 
of a music-hall show.” 

Miss Dyer flushed darkly and her eyes brightened : it was 
obvious what such a prospect meant for her. Then her face 
fell. “ I can’t : there’s no one to leave with Ma.” 

“The neighbours?” suggested Walter. 

“ We don’t know them ; we never mix with people, but 
perhaps another night ” 

“ Well then next week. Settle for some one to come in 
— -say Friday — Friday next week; and we’ll dine at the 
* Troc/ But I’ll send you a line to say the time.” 

“I haven’t got a frock — not smart enough,” objected 
Miss Dyer. 

“ Oh, never mind that ; come anyhow, come as you are 
now,” said Walter; raised the girl’s fingers to his lips, kissed 
them gallantly, and then — turning up the collar of his coat, 
for it was now raining in real earnest — made his way to 
the ’bus; with the stimulating sense of being a “verrie 
parfait gentle knight.” 

It was nobody’s fault that the promised dinner never 
came off. Bellamy was tremendously engaged with his 
inauguration into the mysteries of the Virgo Health and 
Beauty Parlour: besides a friend from Brown, Son and 
MacCullagh’s had introduced him to a very fascinating lady 
of the Adelphi chorus, who took up a good deal of his spare 
time. 

Though perhaps after all it was as well that Miss Dyer 
should not be led to expect too much of life : more than her 
unattractive personality warranted. 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


F ROM this time onward, for several months, Walter 
Bellamy’s life resembled an intoxicating dream. Or 
— as he sometimes felt, with a thrill of uncertainty 
— a delicately tinted bubble ; which would break at a touch, 
a breath of reality. 

For of such an intangible material appeared those first days 
in the heated, scented atmosphere of the Virgo Company, 
where he spent his time interviewing clients. Fine ladies 
of an almost unimaginable fineness, such as he had never 
seen before, save at a distance; and who were a thousand 
times more wonderful close at hand. A bewildering mix- 
ture of pride — in their haughty lips, their commanding 
way of taking everything for granted and of looseness in 
their complete abandonment to the mood of the moment, 
their display of silk stockings and bare necks, the very 
scent which they used. And above all, as far as Walter 
himself was concerned, in the way in which they began 
by behaving as if he was not even a man — being in a shop 
— and ended by making him the fashion ; treating him as 
something between a grand Turk and a prophet. 

It was heady wine enough for any young man ; for their 
elegance somewhat disguised their sheer greed for sex, set 
them apart, and still wonderful. But fortunately Walter 
Bellamy was more romantic in theory than in practice: 
combining the Gallic sentiment of his father with the hard 
English midland-county sense. 

And he saw that these fine ladies marked the difference 
between him and men of their own set by the very way in 
which they let themselves go before other women. 

There were many intimate tete-a-tete tea-parties in those 
small supper rooms. But they kept the distinguished cap- 
tives of their bow — top-hatted and frock-coated and alto- 
gether immaculate — strictly to themselves, though Walter 
would sometimes meet them stealing upstairs, with that 
231 


232 


BELLAMY 


schoolboy look of shame which even the most mature man 
wears when he knows that he is making a fool of himself ; 
while they would bring their most intimate friends to see 
Walter, describing him as: — “ Such a darling! ” “ Such a 

love of a man.” 

“ Mark my words, my dear ; he’ll turn out to be some- 
body — really somebody,” they would say. For women are 
easily misled by beauty : making intimates of men whom any 
hall-porter at any first-class club would place at a glance. 

But all the same it very soon became difficult to say pre- 
cisely in what respect Walter Bellamy missed. Unless it 
was in being almost too good-looking : too polite. Though 
there are still marvels of elegance and courtesy left in the 
oldest ranks of the peerage. 

There was no doubt about his looks : particularly in that 
suit which Beecham and Saunders turned out to such per- 
fection, with the silk shirt, turn-down collar, purple tie and 
socks ; particularly when the time of violets passed and there 
were purple irises in the room, for their slim uprightness 
seeming to harmonise with the long-limbed, grey-clad figure. 

Not that Walter Bellamy was ever effeminate. Indeed 
it was his masculinity, and the piquant contrast which it 
leant to his surroundings that helped him more than any- 
thing else. 

For he kept himself very fit. Every Sunday he rowed 
hard on the river. On fine afternoons he might be seen 
punting a pretty girl along the shallows. But the mornings 
were sacred to strenuous and lonely practice with a pair of 
sculls. 

In addition to this, as soon as the days began to lengthen, 
he rowed twice a week, after business hours, on the Ser- 
pentine. Still went to the Polytechnic, where he did won- 
derful things on parallel bars and trapezes from eight to ten 
on two other nights. And, as often as not, spent his entire 
Saturday afternoon in running. For he worshipped his 
body. Loved to see the skin smooth and shining, and watch 
the play of muscle as he flexed his arm. 

But, for all his fitness, London — though it had not weak- 
ened — had whitened him, giving him an air of refinement. 

After a little thought he had relinquished the idea of 
wearing his hair long, and had it closely cropped. Though 


BELLAMY 


233 

by the best man in Bond Street ; who sometimes managed to 
leave the bare suspicion of a wave, to suit the quiet refine- 
ment of this new Walter Bellamy, who was as different to 
the brisk City clerk — who had emerged from Brown, Son 
and MacCullagh’s — as he was from the breezy broad- 
spoken commercial traveller — or the running boy with his 
bare feet. 

But things linked themselves up. 

This new Bellamy, grave and steady-eyed — for it is a 
fallacy to believe that only the completely honest man can 
look you straight in the face — a little mysterious, full of 
strange knowledge of crystal balls, telepathy and mental 
healing ; gentle, and yet masterful — had a spirit which still 
soared ; an imagination which — splendidly pinioned — 
beat the air in lofty and sustained flights. Was indeed, to 
the very heart’s core of him, one with the little boy in his 
celluloid collar and sailor blouse, who, years before, had 
stood up and “ testified ” in the primitive Methodist chapel 
in Edge. 

There were still the two selves. The one who almost be- 
lieved, and the other who looked on with ribald applause. 

Life was still an amazing game. A sort of juggling 
where one had not only to keep a great number of balls 
going all at once, but to make people believe that there were 
— actually seem to see — double that number. 

He had used his instinctive knowledge of human nature 
in those old days at Edge. He used it now. That was the 
reason of his masterly ways with the exquisite creatures 
who came to Madame Vallence’s. He realised the funda- 
mental likeness in all women: particularly women who are 
more governed by their emotions than their minds. Recog- 
nised with some surprise that civilisation seemed to move 
in a circle which brought these fine ladies near to the level 
of the less responsible of the mill girls : a position in which 
they were far removed from the middle-class business and 
professional woman; while the same instinct which made 
wives of the lowest class respect the husbands who beat 
them, caused these pampered creatures to thrill at any hint 
of mastery. 

They were seldom very young — that was the pathetic 
thing about it — mostly between thirty and forty. Osten- 


234 


BELLAMY 


sibly they came to the Virgo Health and Beauty Parlour to 
be manicured, massaged and generally beautified. Yet it 
was not beauty for itself they wanted, but the power to 
attract, or to keep. For it is a piteous fact, that a woman's 
craving for love increases inversely to her powers of attract- 
ing it. 

When the younger women came they were often hard 
and indifferent; mere callous flirts. 

But with these others it was different. They wanted to 
be happy ; and their only idea of happiness was love. Usu- 
ally some man’s love, sometimes the love of the children 
they had once refused to spoil their figures by bearing. But 
this was rarer, or less clearly comprehended; and it was 
generally a man, a husband or lover who had grown indif- 
ferent, or a friend who persisted in remaining a friend. 

For the most part it was not lust or passion which domi- 
nated them; but their desire for affection. That craving 
for something over and above the everyday life which ac- 
counts for half those Spiritualists and Crystal-gazers, those 
Fortune Tellers, Theosophists and New Thought propa- 
gandists who make a living by pandering to these futile 
searchers after that something which all the mothers in 
Edge — with their growing families, their babies at their 
breasts, their husbands coming home to meals ; all the stress 
of anxiety, hard times, hard words, and even blows — still 
possessed : the knowledge of being absolutely necessary, not 
only to one but to many. 

There was one lady, calling herself Mrs. Smith — though 
there was a coronet on her card-case — who seemed pos- 
sessed of an incurable mania for having her hands mani- 
cured. It was Madame who first suggested that she was so 
wearied out with the daily round of amusements she was 
glad of anywhere where she could sit quite quiet for an 
hour ; and who helped her further by steady continuous 
brushing of her hair and gentle massage of the poor nerve- 
racked head. 

For some time Walter only saw her coming and going; 
always on foot or in a taxi. 

But one very hot morning she was obliged to wait for her 
treatment; and, as Walters room was cooler than any of 
the others, Madame herself showed her in there. Rather, 


BELLAMY 


235 


or so he suspected, that he should be given a chance of 
speaking to a client whom they had both so often discussed. 
For Madame Vallence was genuinely interested in everyone 
who consulted her ; and at the same time shrewdly conscious 
as to how far their depression might lead to reckless spend' 
ing, in the hope of some relief. 

It was still early, and Walter was arranging a tall glass 
vase with irises, from a heaped tray full of flowers which 
had just come in from the market. After placing a chair 
for Mrs. Smith, so that she might sit with her back to the 
light, he went on with his task, skilfully enough, for his 
perception of fitness and beauty was maturing rapidly. 

After a moment or two the woman spoke, gazing up at 
him, with large melancholy eyes, from above a gold-stop- 
pered scent-bottle. 

“ You. are always here? Aren’t you Madame’s ” she 

hesitated, suddenly realising the young man as looking at 
once too old for Madame Vallence’s son, and too young for 
her husband. 

“ No, I am only Madame’s assistant — aide-de-camp,” an- 
swered Walter, smiling. Then went on with his work, for 
he knew better than to press for confidences; besides, he 
guessed, from an air of restlessness which hung about her, 
that the lady would speak again. And he was right. 

“ I think it must be you that one of the girls upstairs told 
me about,” she went on, after a pause. “ You read the 
future from a crystal, don’t you? ” 

“ Sometimes.” 

“ I wonder if you could read mine.” 

“ Perhaps.” Walter Bellamy stood back a little and sur- 
veyed a round silver bowl he had just filled with hydran- 
geas, took out one blossom and glanced at it again critically. 

“ I should like you to try. Now — please,” the lady’s 
tone held a note of command ; and taking a crystal ball from 
the mantel-shelf Walter sat down opposite to her, holding 
it lightly between his finger and thumb, and looking straight 
into her face. 

She must have been forty-five, perhaps nearer fifty. 
There were dark marks under her eyes, and innumerable 
tiny lines. The corners of her mouth turned down; her 
head with its befeathered hat and elaborately curled dark 


BELLAMY 


236 

hair dropped on her long neck, while her diamond earrings 
took every hint of sparkle out of her eyes. She looked very 
expensive, very bored, and tired to the soul. 

“ Do you know, you really never ought to wear diamond 
earrings,” said Walter suddenly. It was the first thing 
which came into his head; but he felt the truth of it and 
realised that at times truth is like a tonic to such peop-le. 
Perhaps because it contains the element of novelty, which 
they are for ever in search of. 

“ Why ? Aren’t they lucky ? ” There was no offence in 
the lady’s voice; only a languid curiosity. 

“ It’s not that; but nothing takes away from the bright- 
ness of the eyes like wearing diamonds so close to the face. 
Now, will you give me some idea of what it is you want to 
know ? ” 

“ What a curious notion ! I wonder if you are right. 
You may be ; sometimes I think I look better without them 
— but one must wear something, and they say pearls mean 
tears.” She was referring to the earrings; but the next 
moment her thoughts went back to Walter’s question. 
“ What do I want to know ? Oh, nothing in particular. If 
there’s anything going to happen, anything new ? ” It was 
the old vague desire. 

Walter Bellamy placed the crystal on a little table, and 
leaning over it, with one hand curved round at either side, 
began looking into it and telling her things : fitting together 
her evident discontent, the coronet on her card-case, and 
various odds and ends which he had gleaned from Madame : 
cleverly enough, for his imagination and common sense both 
helped him, while by this time he had been afforded con- 
siderable practice. 

The crystal-gazing was one cff the tricks of the place, and 
an undoubted draw. The last assistant did it, and so Bel- 
lamy did it — a great deal better too. 

But he never cared for it, feeling that it cramped his in- 
dividuality; and, after a moment or two, he rose — with a 
sudden decisive air, and replaced the crystal on the mantel- 
piece. 

“ Aren’t you going to tell me any more ? I want to 
know ” 

“ It’s not good for you to know,” answered Walter 


BELLAMY 


237 

shortly. Then seated himself again and leant forward; his 
elbows on his knees, his hands lightly clasped. “ Look here, 
you think too much already, and things like that only make 
you . think more. You don’t want to think; you want to 
cultivate the will power to do. I wish ” 

“ What is it you wish ? ” 

“ I was going to say I wish you’d let me help you. But 
unfortunately my time’s not my own.” 

“ How do you mean ? ” 

“ Well, you see, I am here somewhat in the capacity of a 
healer. Really we are all that. Madame Vallence and the 
young ladies do their best with the body, and the actual 
physical nerves. I with the mind — or as I prefer to think 
— the soul. Sometimes I feel that the soul is like the chief- 
est flower in the garden of life.” 

This idea had come to Walter as an inspiration, while he 
was engaged in keeping himself up to the mark on the 
Serpentine, only the evening before ; not that he believed it, 
but it sounded well. It was ideas like this which often 
made him feel that he could write a book: while at other 
times his fancy turned to the stage. 

“ That’s a beautiful thought,” said the lady softly. And 
it did sound pretty: particularly a^ Walter Bellamy said it, 
with that faint French accent in which Madame so persist- 
ently coached him. 

“ It needs the most exquisite care and culture. All the 
garden round must correspond to it — be grown up to it, 
this flower of the soul. There must be no poisonous or 
overwhelming weeds. No creeping insects — bitter, selfish 
thoughts. But there must be the sunshine — and the dew 
must bathe it ; and the fresh winds of heaven play for ever 
round it. For it is no greenhouse plant. That’s the mis- 
take we often make — Ah, if only I ” 

There was a discreet knock at the door, which opened just 
sufficiently to show a slim girl in a grey dress, with a large 
white over-all. “ I am ready now if Madame ” 

“Oh, not this morning, I think. I’ll put it off, if you 
don’t mind. To-morrow, perhaps.” 

Mrs. Smith spoke gently, but quite decisively. It was 
evident that she had no idea of any one disputing her right 
to do as she pleased. 


BELLAMY 


238 

Then as the door closed softly she turned again to Walter. 

“ Now, will you go on ? ” 

“ Well, I was going to say that my time is not my own. 
That if you liked to take a course of mental healing, and 
come and talk things over with me once or twice a week, 
I think I might be able to help you. But ” 

With a sudden gesture Walter Bellamy rose and walking 
over to the mantel-piece stood with his arms upon it, his back 
to the lady. The action in itself was rude. But it gave, 
very cleverly, the effect of genuine feeling, of overwhelming 
emotion. 

“ Well, I am quite ready to take the course as you sug- 
gest — it might do me good, help me ” The lady sighed. 

There was no doubt about her unhappiness, her longing to 
ease her mind in some way or other. 

“Well, you see, it’s like this ” he began doubtfully, 

then broke off : — “ Do you know — can you guess how dif- 
ficult it is for me to speak erf such a thing as money. Mais, 
que voulez-vous? One must live. And I comfort myself 
with the thought that the greatest singers, the greatest paint- 
ers, sell their gifts. Madame declares — how far she is 
right, upon my soul, I don’t know — that I have great gifts ; 
and that the charges ought to be proportionately high. For 
ten lessons — Ah! ce n’est pas juste, that one should have 

to sell oneself so — for ten lessons ” he hesitated with 

apparent delicacy, wondering how far he might presume on 
that air of ultra-expensiveness which encompassed Mrs. 
Smith. 

“ Well? ” said the lady. 

“ Fifty guineas,” answered Walter, with an apparently 
child-like distress in his eyes. 

“ It does seem a good deal,” she replied doubtfully. And 
for a moment he quailed. Very rich people are sometimes 
very mean. It was more than twice as much as he had ever 
asked before. Was he going to lose his fish through his 
own greed ? But he knew that his only hope lay in keeping 
quiet; for certain types of nervous people — though they 
can argue, or even quarrel — are quite incapable of facing a 
silence. 

After a moment’s pause she spoke again : “ Well, one 


BELLAMY 


239 


gives as much for a new gown, and if it means any peace 
of mind, any surety, it will be well worth it. I will write 

a cheque now ” she began again: then hesitated and 

flushed. “ No, on second thoughts I think I will bring the 
money in notes, settle with you next time, if you don’t 
mind, Mr. ” 

“ My name is Belle-amie.” There was the* very faintest 
accent on the middle syllable. 

“ What a pretty name, particularly as you pronounce it.” 

“ French ” answered Walter; contriving, with that 

single syllable and a sigh, to express all the nostalgia of a 
hopeless exile. 

The very next day, as he was going out to his lunch, he 
saw a motor waiting outside a shop, a footman standing at 
the side of it with a rug over his arm, and upon the panel 
of the door a coronet; while thrown over the seat was the 
very same light silk wrap which his latest client had worn 
the day before. 

One of his sudden inspirations came to Bellamy at the 
sight ; and stopping he asked the footman — with a perfectly 
grave face — if Lady Seymour — using the first name 
which, for no reason whatever, occurred to him — was in- 
side. 

The man stared : “ I don’t know the name, Sir,” he re- 

plied with more politeness than a less well-trained servant 
would have shown. 

“ But surely this is Lady Seymour’s car? ” 

“ No, Sir ; ” he hesitated a moment and added — “ The 
Duchess of Mount joy’s.” 

“ Oh, thank you, I’m sorry — it was my mistake,” said 
Walter politely and passed on. 

But he had gained the information he wished, and real- 
ised why “ Mrs. Smith ” had not cared to put her name to 
a cheque. 

That evening he stayed behind the others; requested a 
private interview with Madame, and demanded — in addi- 
tion to his salary — a twenty per cent commission on all 
the business he brought into the firm. 

Most women would have shown some sign of annoyance 
or excitement. But Madame — like a female Napoleon, 


BELLAMY 


240 

pale and indomitable, behind the writing-desk in her little 
office — merely raised her eyes quietly and asked : 
“Why?” ^ - 

“ Because/* said Walter, and there was pride in his voice, 
“ I have brought in the Duchess of Mount joy.” 

“ Oh, that’s who she is, is it ! ” 

“ She is paying fifty guineas for a course of mental heal- 
ing. And I think — as I started it in its present form, and 
as this won’t be the end — I’m entitled ” Walter 'hesi- 

tated, shrugged his shoulders, and smiled ingratiatingly, “ to 
something out of it.” 

“ You are already receiving a very large salary.” 

“ I make far more.” 

“ Doubtless, but I had the original outlay. And I now 
have the risks and immense current expenses to consider.” 

There was a pause of several moments. During which 
Walter stood looking down at Madame, with an air of per- 
fect respect, while she — with her elbows on the table, her 
white hands clasped at the level of her chin — looked up at 
him, the pupils of her eyes concentrated to mere pin pricks. 

All at once the corners wrinkled. She was a Napoleon 
whose power lay in the fact that she realised when to give 
way, when to pay the price. She was also amused at her 
assistant’s calm demeanour; particularly as it represented a 
distinct asset for the firm. 

“ Very well,” she said quietly, “ I am willing — under the 
circumstances.” 

“ The percentage to commence with the payment of the 
Duchess of Mountjoy’s fee.” 

“ That was arranged before.” 

“ It is not paid yet.” 

Again Madame hesitated ; she had taken up a pen and was 
gently tapping with it on the table, though her eyes never 
left Walter’s face. 

“ Oh, well,” she said at last, “ I suppose it’s not worth 
disputing about that.” She turned over the papers on her 
desk as she spoke, hunting for a fresh sheet of paper. 

“ I will make out the agreement. But I think you must 
promise that there will be no further request for a rise of 
any sort during the next twelve months.” 

“ Oh, yes,” assented Walter gaily — twelve months 


BELLAMY 


241 


seemed an eternity : there was no knowing where he would 
be or what he would be doing at the end of that time, “ I’m 
quite willing to promise that. And you needn’t trouble to 
draw out a fresh agreement, Madame; I brought my copy 
of the last one with me,” he pulled out an envelope from his 
pocket as he spoke, “ and I presume you have yours. So 
we can just add a note, then ask Mr. Hope to step up and 
witness it.” 

“ You are the most self-sure — no, that is not the word. 
In English I am not quite certain. In French I should say 
you had savoir faire, but that is not it. The most self ” 

“ Confident ? ” 

“ Yes, that’s it. The most self-confident young man I 
ever had the pleasure to meet, Mr. Bellamy.” 

“ Oh, well,” answered Walter, smiling down at her — “ it 
all helps, doesn’t it ? ” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 


H OWEVER foolish Mrs. Smith might be she was al- 
ways, in some mysterious way, the great lady. 

But this was not so much a matter of birth as of 
real innate goodness and dignity. For there were others 
just as well born, who seemed incapable of any reserve. 
Among them the Lady Constance Barr, an exotic, fragile, 
dark-eyed creature, who sucked her friends and lovers dry : 
was possessed of an insatiable desire to know and to have ; 
and would allow her intimates no privacy of either thought 
or feeling. Again there were those of the quality of Mrs. 
Seaton, who was an Honourable in her own right — be- 
longed to one of the best families in England — and yet 
behaved like a cross between a chorus-girl and a stable- 
boy. 

Among them all there was not one equal to Jane Irwin: 
calm, workaday, matter-of-fact little Jane, with her flower- 
like face and large womanliness. 

Walter often pitied himself in regard to Jane. She was 
the one woman. It was an irony of fate that their stations 
were too utterly different to allow of their marriage; any- 
how at present, when every accessory of his life must be 
for show. 

But sometimes he longed for her: her clear simplicity; 
the soft burr of her northern speech — “ Ee now, lod, dinna’ 
maether ” — yet more as part of his native land, than as a 
woman. 

Madame Vallence, widely different as she was, pleased 
him in somewhat the same way. She was so quiet and in- 
scrutable. What would be personal with most women was, 
with her, merely a matter of business; of brain not of 
emotion, and Walter was sick of emotion. 

One day they had an odd conversation. More than once 
he had wished that her husband was out of the way and he 
could marry her. Hope seemed rather a neutral person- 

242 


BELLAMY 


243 

ality ; but he was always there, as a sort of watch-dog, and 
ran his business in connection with Madame’s : though none 
of their clients knew it. 

Walter often wondered what the home life of the two 
was like. He could not imagine Madame as domesticated 
in any sense of the word, and learnt, with a feeling of sur- 
prise — as though it was something incongruous — almost 
ludicrous — that the pair had a little girl of eight or nine ; 
and that Madame was, like most French women — for 
though she had spent the greater part of her life in England, 
she retained many national traits — an ideal mother. 

On one occasion he had told her — in a burst of boyish 
frankness — that he regretted she was not a widow. 

The corners of her eyes creased with laughter. She was 
no wit touched, though amused and interested. 

“ Well, I don’t know. I like you, mon ami, but I also 
like Mr. Hope; it is impossible to combine all qualities in 
one man. The real stupidity is that a woman may not have 
two husbands.” 

“ Some people do,” answered Walter with a rather ex- 
cited laugh, his bright eyes full on Madame’s face; for she 
was seated at her writing-table, looking up at him, her 
smooth white hands folded in front of her. “ Some people 
do,” he repeated meaningly. 

“Yes, but that is of no use to any woman — never was, 
and never will be. I am not a prude, oh no ! But I realise 
that the moment you have a secret intrigue with a man — 
no matter how good a companion he may have been, how 
much of a spiritual affinity, as we say here — he becomes 
your lover, nothing more ; a greedy animal who satisfies his 
lust and then goes away. Why it is I cannot tell — the 
secrecy, the lying — who knows ? But it is a fact, and in- 
evitably true: the ‘ cher ami ’ is never the real friend.” 

“ There are other ways — a divorce, for instance.” 

“ My dear young man, I am not one to drop the substance 
for the shadow. Besides this, Mr. Hope has never given 
me any cause for divorce — under the present English law. 
And I — curiously enough, you will think, knowing my life 
— have never given him any cause at all, under any law. 
Besides, we have got over all the storms of life ; we have 
our child, we are contented. But still it is a pity ! ” 


244 


BELLAMY 


“ What a business we might have made of it. If we were 
sure ” began Bellamy, and sighed. 

Madame shrugged her shoulders. “ When is one sure ? 
Certainly not in marriage.” 

Again there was that glint of ironic laughter in her eyes, 
for she believed that by holding the purse-strings she held 
the young man far firmer than by any marriage vows. And 
perhaps she was right — in so far as anything could hold 
Walter Bellamy. 


CHAPTER XXXIX 


D URING August and September business was slack 
at the Virgo Health and Beauty Parlour. But not 
so slack as it had been at the end of other seasons ; 
for by then Madame Vallence and Bellamy had established 
an ever-growing series of correspondence courses: in so- 
called mental science, personal attraction and will-power — 
to which Walter attended with the help of a newly ap- 
pointed secretary — along with others, dealing with health 
and beauty, which were Madame’s special province. 

Between them they never let a client slip. If a woman’s 
complexion was as faultless as it could be made, she was 
inspired with a longing to pry into the future; impressed 
with the necessity of reducing or augmenting her figure; 
attaining to a higher knowledge of her soul; subjugating 
her male friends by personal magnetism : practising the art 
of telepathy, or going through a special regime of diet — 
which the Virgo Health and Beauty Company alone was 
able to graduate to an exact nicety for each client. 

It was Walter who thought of starting a branch in Man- 
chester. 

“ Their complexions are muddy, all their pores stopped 
up — skins and brains alike. They’re sick of Methodist 
Revivals. Start them on the closer culture of the soul, a 
debauch of mental science and self-knowledge, with a little 
crystal-gazing thrown in as a special bonne-bouche ” 

“ I don’t believe they’re that sort,” Madame demurred 
doubtfully. 

“ That’s just it! Every woman loves to be taken for 
what she’s not; a prude for a demi-mondaine, and vice 
versa. I know them; they’re all sick of everything, the 
dreary drabness, the flat respectability. We’ll make ’em sit 
up.” It was the old Walter who spoke, with joyous antici- 
pation. “ I’d start it at the Potteries if it wasn’t that the 
women there will appreciate it all the more for having to 

245 


246 BELLAMY 

pay for their return ticket to Manchester — in addition to 
other fees.” 

Madame gave in. She was getting to depend on Walter's 
judgment; and here it was more than justified, for the 
Manchester branch was an amazing success. By the end 
of the slack London season it was fully established. Wal- 
ter had leashed in the young Jew — who looked like an 
Italian — from Brown, Son and MacCullagh’s ; and after 
a month's training sent him up there to do the same sort of 
work as he himself did in Town; while he and Madame 
went up for the day, on alternate weeks, and saw very 
special clients at very special prices: by appointment only. 

Walter had spent his Whitsuntide holiday in Paris. And 
twice, later in the year, he had raced over after some new 
dye or emollient; returning with the air of a delightful, 
bright-eyed, well-groomed, absolutely conscientiousless dog 
— bearing some one else’s bone between his teeth. 

His acquaintance with Miss Hetty d’Esterre of the 
Adelphi chorus had grown, for she was an independent, 
outspoken little creature, whose frank vulgarity was like a 
breath of clear air after the vitiating atmosphere of the 
Virgo Parlour. 

Hetty visited the establishment once, on the plea of hav- 
ing her nails manicured. It was late October by then ; and 
violets and Michaelmas daisies held sway in the grey and 
purple rooms, while wood fires burnt in the low tiled grates. 

But Hetty, no wit impressed, characterised the whole 
place as “ stuffy.” 

After having her nails attended to she invaded Walter’s 
domain, knocking and opening the door at the same time. 
Then hesitated on the threshold with the wide stare of a 
child. 

“ Oh, I say ! I didn't know that any one was here but 
you, Wally. I hope I don’t intrude ? ” 

It was obvious that she did intrude. For Mrs. Smith 
was there. And Mrs. Smith was crying, sunk low in a deep 
chair. 

But she pulled herself together with a little laugh, for in 
her own way she had plenty of courage. 

“ Not at all,” she said politely. And got up and pow- 
dered her face and arranged her thick veil at the glass over 


BELLAMY 


247 

the mantel-shelf. “ I had just finished, please don’t 
g° : ” 

“ It’s shocking to have a cold like that ; they seem to be 
about everywhere,” remarked Hetty with great tact, her 
face buried in a bowl of violets. “ Had one myself the 
other day; eyes an’ nose running all the time — Harry 
Beale — I suppose you know Harry Beale, don’t you ? — • 
says as how I might have won the Derby with them. But 
I took quinine. There’s nothing like quinine, and a drop 
of something hot before you go to bed.” 

She spoke quickly and profusely to give the other woman 
time to recover herself. And it was evident that Mrs. Smith 
appreciated the kindness. 

“ Thank you. I think I will try quinine. I’m sure it is 
an excellent thing,” she said, wished Walter good day and 
turned to the door ; then hesitated, and glanced wistfully at 
Hetty’s bright little face. 

“ You look very well. Not at all as if you’d ever 

had ” she hesitated a moment, then added, “ a cold. 

Do you mind telling me what you do? Are you on the 
stage ? ” 

“ In the chorus at the Adelphi, in the ‘ Bandbox Girl/ 
It’s a fine thing. Go! — doesn’t it just go, Wally? Just 
like champagne. Have you seen it? for if so you’ve seen 
me, second from the end in the front row when they line 
up. My name’s Hetty d’Esterre; at least that’s my stage 
name, the one I’m known by.” 

“ I’m afraid I haven’t seen it. I ” 

“ Well, you’ll have to. It’ud cheer you up. There’s 
nothing for cheering you up like musical comedy. And 
this is real stuff, no mistake about it. Why, there’s some 
as has been a dozen times an’ more — but they’re mostly 
men. Elsie Vardon’s the principal, and she always draws 
them. But it’s good apart from her — ain’t it, Wally? 
You must get your hubby to take you, Mrs. ” she hesi- 

tated an appreciable moment; but as no information was 
forthcoming went on — with undiminished friendliness — 
“ the very first evening you can get seats. But you’ll have 
to book days beforehand, I can tell you that.” 

An odd little smile flickered over Mrs. Smith’s face. Be- 
fore her eyes there flashed a mental picture of the Duke 


BELLAMY 


248 

— permanently middle-aged, engrossed in the business of 
“ The House,” committees and fiscal affairs ; and she won- 
dered what he would have said could he have heard himself 
spoken of as a 0 hubby ” by Miss Hetty d’Esterre of the 
Adelphi chorus. It was not even as if he had ever been 
really young enough to have had any dealings with such 
people, as other men of his rank. Once — in her early 
married days — she, herself, had said that she could almost 
love Mount joy if he came home drunk some night, with a 
woman on either arm. Anything to show that he was hu- 
man, not merely an admirable machine. 

“ Yes, I must make a point of seeing it,” she said gently. 
“ I’m sure it must be very amusing, and there must be real 
good in a thing that makes anybody look as happy as you 
do.” 

“ Oh, I keep my end up ! ” answered Hetty blithely. And 
shook hands and wished the other woman good luck, add- 
ing the hope that they would meet again. 

“ Poor old thing. What’s wrong with her ; looks as if 
she’d got the pip. Must be pretty hard up for a pal when 
she brings her troubles to you, Wally. No offence meant, 
but I’d as soon confide in a tin fender. Refined looking, 
too.” 

“ By Jove, Hetty, you are the limit ! Look here, do you 
know who she is ? ” asked Bellamy, standing in front of her 
with his hands in his pockets, swinging to and fro in joyous 
anticipation of the bomb he was about to cast. He wore 
the very best of boots these days, and took unfailing, con- 
scious pleasure in them. 

“ No ; ” Hetty, perched on the arm of a chair, stuck out 
one smartly shod foot and turned it from side to side ad- 
miringly. “ You didn’t introduce us — and she didn’t seem 
keen to let on, though I gave her the lead. I didn’t press 
her. I suppose one does feel a bit of an ass, when one’s 

caught weeping in a good-looking young man’s arm ” 

she paused, with mischievous deliberation, then added, 
twinkling — •“ chair. Seemed a nice sort of person though ; 
quite the lady.” 

“ But you don’t know who she is ? ” persisted Bellamy. 

“ Haven’t I just said so? You’ll have to get that brain 
of yours seen to, Wally. You’re going potty with putting 


BELLAMY 


249 

too much polish on your hair, that’s what’s wrong with 
you.” 

By this time Hetty, looking like some vivid tropical bird 
in her scarlet dress and dark furs, was perched tiptoe upon 
the rail of the fender, touching up her already brilliant lips 
before the glass. “ After all, who is she ? She looks a bit 
of all right.” 

“ She is ” Walter hesitated a moment, then brought 

out the words with a roll of triumph; “ the Duchess of 
Mountjoy.” 

“ What ? ” The girl flung round and stared, still on the 
fender, her arms stretched out along the mantel-shelf be- 
hind her — poised as if for flight. 

“ The Duchess of Mountjoy,” repeated Walter. 

“ Good Lord ! — Then what’s her husband ? ” 

. “The Duke of Mountjoy, of course, silly child!” 

“ And I called him her 4 hubby/ ” Hetty tittered, evidently 
more amused than awed. Then, descending from her 
perch, fluttered her plumage for a moment — her every 
movement bird-like in its quick finish — and returned to her 
former seat on the arm of the chair. “ Not that Dukes 
count much,” she went on. " There’s lords and dukes and 
marquisses, an’ all sorts, as come hanging round after our 

girls. But a Duchess, mind you ” her voice dropped, 

there was a look of almost reverent wonder upon her impu- 
dent little face, with its bright dark eyes : — “ a Duchess is 
in another street altogether. There’s girls as have kicked 
off a Duke’s hat ; but there’s not many as have shook hands 
with a Duchess. I wonder I don’t feel more set up than 
I do. One ’ud think you’d sort o’ feel a thing like that in 
the air. You’re not kidding me, are you ? ” she added suspi- 
ciously. 

“ No, it’s true enough ; but mind this, Hetty, it’s not got 
to go any further.” Bellamy turned and fixed the little 
actress with one of his stares, suddenly realising what might 
be the result of the irresistible pride which had impelled 
him to flourish his acquisition in her eyes. Supposing 
Hetty took it into her head to brag too. For Madame’s 
most stringent law was to the effect that nothing should 
ever go outside the place. “If other people knew as much 
as we do all our power would be gone,” she said. 


250 


BELLAMY 


But he need have had no fear as far as Hetty was con- 
cerned. “ ’Tain’t likely I’d give any woman away,” she pro- 
tested indignantly ; “ let alone any one as nicely spoken as 
she was. It seems a soppy sort of thing, though, for a 
Duchess to come and cry in a shop, like that.” 

“ It isn’t a shop! ” interjected Walter indignantly. 

“Well, an establishment, then; or whatever you jolly 
well like to call it. But if it pleases her it ain’t no business 
of mine. People have to put their time in somehow, I 
suppose. Well, I must go.” The girl rose, pulled her furs 
up over her shoulders, and thrust her hands deep in her 
muff. Then looked round with the affectation of a shud- 
der. “ Why don’t you pull back the curtains a bit and have 
a few pictures on the wall? It ’ud give me the jim-jams 
to be shut up in a place like this. I’m glad I put on my 
red; I always sort of feel like the colour I’m dressed in, 
and mauve’s that melancholy! Madame ought to have a 
nice warm crimson paper — cheer people up a bit.” 

“Hetty, you’re quite adorable, but anything more awful 
than that scarlet rig-out in this room ! ” 

Hetty laughed. “ Well, I’ll take it out, and myself with 
it.” 

“ I’m afraid you must.” Walter glanced at his watch 

— which he now wore on a .strap on his wrist. “ I’ve 
some one just due for a special appointment. But I say, 
let’s have dinner together to-night. A quarter past seven 
at the ‘ Troc.’ Will that give you time?” 

“ Time enough if I was coming, which I’m not. I’ve 
piles to do at home, an’ shall run into Town at the last 
moment just in time to go on. But we’ll have supper to- 
gether, if you like to come round.” 

“All right; well, au revoir.” 

“ Good-bye.” Hetty — whose hands were so close and 
deep in her muff that she did not trouble to disturb them 

— lifted her rosy lips to his. 

Walter kissed her. Then gave an excited little laugh; 
took her by her shoulders and shook her. “ By Jove, 
Hetty, what a lark ! What a glorious lark it all is ! ” 

“What?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. The whole thing — life altogether 
— -you and Duchesses. The topsy-turviness of it all. If 


BELLAMY 


251 


you could see it as I do — if you’d known me ; a barefooted 
little devil running round the town with papers, blue with 
cold; or padding it thirty miles a day in the twisting shed. 
And the childhood of these women, little girls with white 
muslin frocks, bronze shoes, smooth curls as one sees them 
in the parks ; with all their nurses and governesses and 
teachers. Then to have them coming here, hanging on 
my every word as though I was a prophet — I sit at the 
back of myself and laugh and laugh. I can twist them 
round my little finger! Look here, Hetty, I can twist 
them round my little finger as easily as I could wind silk 
on to a bobbin, ’pon my soul I can.” 

“ Well, if you ask me, I think it’s a low-down game — 
but then one must live.” 

“ You’re right there, my girl — one must live. And if 

you don’t make a joke of life ” Walter Bellamy’s 

voice was suddenly bitter — “by God, it makes a joke of 
you, and a pretty grim joke, too. Particularly up here in 

London. I remember the first week But you must 

go. And look here, Hetty,” he added, as he moved to the 
door and opened it for her, “ go down by the lift ; there’s a 
good girl, they’ll think you’re a falling star if any one meets 
you on the stairs in that rig-out.” 


CHAPTER XL 


R IGHT in the middle of the London season, for no 
apparent reason whatever, Walter Bellamy threw 
up his post at the Virgo Parlour. 

The business was in a flourishing condition : to the 
branches in Manchester and Paris had been added another 
in Birmingham ; he was making more money than he had 
ever dreamt of, the commissions alone brought him in over 
four hundred a year. But neither that nor anything else 
would hold him, with the grit of dust and ashes between 
his teeth. 

It was true, as Madame pointed out, that the business 
ran so smoothly now it gave him little trouble. He saw 
nobody except by special appointment — often made weeks 
beforehand; he visited the other branches at his own con- 
venience; his time was practically his own to arrange as 
he wished, while his success was so assured that his com- 
mission was certain — or as certain as anything can be in 
this world — to remain at the same high level which it had 
already reached. 

But clever as she was Madame Vallence could scarcely 
have put forward a series of more futile pleas, for at that 
time only a crisis could have held a man of Walter Bel- 
lamy’s disposition. With ease had come a sense of utter 
flatness: all the sparkle, all the sense of adventure had 
gone. He knew the great ladies who interviewed him 
through and through: was at the end of them. If money 
ceased to mean more life it was no good to him. 

In a state of panic Madame offered to take him into 
partnership ; but it was all no use. 

As far as she was concerned his decision was like a bolt 
from the blue. He seemed to be gone as soon as it was 
made; for she had omitted to alter the old agreement, al- 
lowing for only a week’s notice on either side. Indeed it 
had never entered her head that any man could be mad 

252 


BELLAMY 


253 


enough to give up such a position. She had a long inter- 
view with him: put out all her powers of charm, would — 
quite deliberately — have gone almost any length to hold 
him. But it was all of no use : her influence had vanished 
as completely as the last winter’s snow. 

What is it you want ? ” she asked at length in despera- 
tion. Women of fashion, were, as she well knew, strangely 
obstinate. They had set their hearts on Walter, and likely 
enough would all trail after him, if he chose to start a rival 
establishment. “ What do you want ? ” she repeated, with 
no signs of irritation; determined to pay any price that he 
might demand. 

“ Oh, I don’t know — something different,” answered 
Walter vaguely. And that was all she could get out of 
him, though she watched him as a cat watches a mouse, her 
fine eyes narrowed with anxiety; for she more than half 
suspected the whim of some jealous girl to be at the bottom 
of so unreasonable a decision. 

But it was something far more intangible than this which 
fretted Walter Bellamy. A sort of conspiracy, indeed, be- 
tween his. mother’s drab discontent, and the restless spirit 
which had driven James Bellamy’s forefathers to leave 
their silk weaving, to mix themselves up in wars, and get 
carried prisoners to England: till — planted there, on the 
wind-swept midland heights — necessity forced them back 
to their old trade. All this and the wanton lure of spring, 
which — regardless of smuts — was once again rioting 
recklessly through the London parks. 

The first week, after leaving Madame Vallence — parting 
from her on perfectly friendly terms, for that had become 
a fixed part of his policy — Bellamy spent in London; re- 
alising it, its beauties and fascinations as he had never done 
before. 

Women in the park bowed to him, wondering where they 
had met the good-looking young fellow. Then remem- 
bered and crimsoned. But usually bowed again next time : 
particularly if they were with other women. For he was 
a man no one need feel ashamed of recognising. 

Besides, he had plenty of tact. He raised his hat beauti- 
fully, just enough, but never attempted to stop and talk. 

Only Mrs. Seaton insisted. Taking a few running, laugh- 


BELLAMY 


254 

ing steps after him; catching him by his arm and asking 
him to come to tea with her in Curzon Street. 

Walter refused. He explained that he was working very, 
hard. Yes, he had left Madame Vallence — it did not al- 
low him sufficient scope — and was engaged in research 
work and a propaganda of a more serious nature than had 
before been possible. He knew that, having refused one 
invitation, she would ask him again. 

As a matter of fact he was doing nothing, with conscious 
deliberation and joy. He had saved a little money. He 
had a scheme for the future, and meanwhile he went about 
and saw life: culling the affections, the thoughts, the inter- 
ests, of one devotee after another — just as the bees cull 
the honey from every flower. 

To two people only, was he constant. To Gale — for 
whom he really felt some sort of affection, though they sel- 
dom met now — and to little Hetty d’Esterre. 

Curiously enough both these were people who, as he 
realised, saw through him as plainly as Jane Irwin. But, 
in truth, he felt it a relief to be in the company of some one 
with whom there was no need to pretend to be anything 
but what he was — a clever actor of original parts — who 
were discriminating enough to admire his histrionic powers 
more than his beautiful soul, with whom he could stand 
back and laugh at his own achievements. 

But still his desires varied. Sometimes he wanted to be 
thought of as very great and good, sometimes as very clever, 
sometimes merely, as “ a card.” 

Even with Hetty he could not be quite genuine ; for hav- 
ing temporarily discarded his aristocratic origin, he painted 
the privations of his boyhood as far greater than, in reality, 
they ever had been, merely to give point to his rise in life. 

About this time, after an exhilarating fortnight in Paris, 
Bellamy moved into charming and expensive rooms — such 
as he had long dreamed of — in the “ Adelphi,” spending 
a good deal of his leisure and money in fitting them up. 

He could always make more when he wanted it. The 
fact of having once touched bottom had given him an un- 
swerving belief in his own powers to climb, for there are 
few things which make men so reckless as knowing just how 
bad the worst can be. 


BELLAMY 


255 

Shortly after his return from Paris he went to see Gale 
on some special business, being doubtful if a letter would 
reach him. For Gale was always on the drift; and this 
time Bellamy interviewed three landladies — sulky or ag- 
gressive — before he ran him to ground. 

Fie was used to overcrowding and squalor, but the stair- 
case of the last building to which he had been directed, and 
which was let out indiscriminately in single rooms, sickened 
him. 

It was a high narrow place off Rochester Row, with win- 
dows which looked out either into a well, or onto the blank 
wall of the adjoining houses. 

Gale’s room was at the top, opening into the well. But 
he was better off than most, for it was possible for him to 
catch a glimpse of blue sky between the chimney-pots, if 
he could only manage to keep his eyes upraised above the 
intervening horrors which were plainly visible within the 
other rooms; for immediately opposite, not ten feet from 
his own window, he could look down into one home packed 
above the other, a teeming hive of misery and filth. 

He was dressing when Walter arrived — though it was 
five o’clock in the afternoon — haggard and more emaciated 
than ever. Curiously enough, however — except for a 
slight puffiness and sagging of the skin — his vice seemed 
to have refined rather than coarsened him ; so that one won- 
dered through what stirrings of the spirit it had eaten its 
way. 

The attic was empty save for a miserable bed and a table 
filled with a miscellaneous assortment of books and papers, 
crockery, and cooking utensils, while a tiny fire smouldered 
in the grate, a flat iron was propped against the bars, and 
a large tin bubbled upon it: throwing off an odour which, 
for some reason or other, flashed a vivid picture of the 
twisting sheds through Walter’s mind. 

“Well?” said Gale, not too graciously, hitching his 
braces which were much mended with string, over the 
shoulder of his ragged shirt: — “what do you want now?” 

“The pleasure of your company,” answered Bellamy 
airily. 

“ Oh ! ” Gale moved across to the fire, lifted the lid from 
the saucepan, and carried it steaming to the table : spread a 


BELLAMY 


256 

fragment of newspaper with one hand — for the coarse 
wood was scrubbed white — stood it down, and began 
fishing certain limp fragments out of it with the help of a 
fork. 

“ I say, what’s that? Tripe?” 

“ Tripe! No,” answered Gale shortly, with a hard stare 
which denied any acquaintance with, even knowledge of, 
such a delicacy. Then dropping the rags — which proved 
to be collars — in a basin, poured some water over them 
and rinsed them ; emptied it and blued them in fresh water ; 
wrung them and rolled them tightly up in a towel. 

Bellamy had moved to the window and stood leaning 
against the lintel staring out, down into those unspeakable 
rooms, which, in their blindless condition, showed that the 
inhabitants had lost their last remnant of self-respect. 

For men or women of the working-class must have sunk 
very low before parting with some shade between them- 
selves and the outer world. 

But Walter Bellamy saw nothing. He knew now what 
had taken his mind back to Edge, and his running days : it 
was the smell of soapy water. 

Strange how that week of suffering had bitten into him. 
Jimmy Clarke, grinning and cursing at his wheel, seemed 
far nearer and more real than the man who was here in the 
same room with him; while his fury of anger and disap- 
pointment regarding the improved spooler was a mere 
shadow. 

He felt'wrung and tired with the memory as he turned 
again towards the room, and saw Gale trying the heat of 
the iron against his cheek. 

“ Don’t you have to starch them or something? ” he asked 
listlessly. 

“No — anyhow they’re soft collars and if I iron them 
wet they get a certain stiffness,” replied Gale. Then added 
bitterly : 

“ It must be very interesting to you, ' Belle-amie, to see 
how the poor live. Couldn’t you tempt one of the sweet 
creatures you meet at that mummery shop of yours to try 
the simple life with me? ” He smoothed out a collar as he 
spoke and ironed it deftly, first on one side, then on the 
other; though Walter noticed that little beads of sweat 


BELLAMY 


257 

started out upon his forehead at even that small exer- 
tion. 

“ I’ve left Madame Vallence.” 

“Why?” 

“ Oh, I don’t know. I wanted something different. It 
took too much of my time — of myself,” answered Bellamy 
grandiloquently. “ It is impossible to keep an open mind 
when one is working for other people like that.” 

“ An open mind’s often as not an empty mind,” snapped 
Gale bitterly ; hung one collar over the back of a chair and 
started on another. 

. Bellamy stared round him. He had never been in Fran- 
cis Gale’s room before. Several times he had got as far 
as the door, but his friend had always come out to speak 
to him; closing it carefully after him. He knew that Gale 
was what he termed “ somebody ” he was more convinced 
of this than ever since he had got to know people who 
really were “ somebodies ” at the Virgo Parlour — the half 
of them had no backbone — just like Gale. Besides he 
had not forgotten the incident outside the Tate Gallery. 
He half hoped to see some photographs or drawings. But 
he was disappointed; and moving to the table he began to 
turn over the books. Opened one at random and found a 
book-plate : — silver a engrailed between three falcons’ 
heads razed sable. Above this was engraved a helmet and 
crossed swords with florid foliage; and beneath a motto 
and the legend: — “Ex libris Francis James Gale,” while 
below, on the page of the book itself, were written the 
words “ Balliol College, Oxford,” and the date of ten years 
earlier. 

Bellamy was amazed. He had always thought of the 
derelict as being quite an old man, and this made him — at 
any rate — under thirty-five. He raised his eyes to the 
other’s face — regarding him afresh from a new point of 
v j ew — to find that Gale was staring at him angrily; a 
crimson patch on either cheek. 

“ Well ? ” he enquired. The four or five frayed collars 
were finished and hung on the back of a chair ; while he sat 
leaning forward against the table, trembling from sheer 
weakness and fatigue. 

“ Well ? ” he asked again. Then added, with a plain ef- 


BELLAMY 


258 

fort to speak lightly: — “Once more may I ask what you 
want. I can’t imagine that this honour is thrust upon me, 
merely by a desire for my company.” 

“ Well, if that’s the case, it doesn’t look as though I’m 
likely to get much material benefit, at least — from this 
place,” laughed Walter, with perfect good temper. “ Or, 
to put it quite candidly, from you, my dear Gale,” he added 
insolently. “ Generally speaking, I think that it’s been the 
other way. You’ve touched me for a pretty penny, one way 
and another, since we first met.” 

“ Don’t make any mistake about that, my young friend. 
You’ve got a very great deal more from me than it will 
ever be in your power to give. And now out with it. 
What do you want ? ” 

" You’ve got no more manners than a louse ! ” retorted 
Bellamy, at last somewhat nettled. 

“ It’s odd, but that’s an expression — that, and ‘ the likes 
of that,’ ” mocked Gale, “ which would never occur to any 
gentleman, even in his most lax moods. There are two 
things that you must never allow yourself, Belle-amie ; 
either to lose your temper, or to get drunk. They both of 
them want generations of breeding behind them, if they’re 
not to give a man away.” 

He moved to the fire as he spoke, and seating himself on 
an upturned box, bent over it; the room was overpower- 
ingly stuffy, but it seemed as if he was always cold. 

“ Oh, well, if you can afford to be so high and mighty.” 
Bellamy gave a shrug, the very touch of his fine clean linen 
against his skin pleased him by its contrast to the place. 
“ I came with the offer of a job which I thought might be a 

help to you. But ” again he shrugged his shoulders; 

took out his cigarette case — a gold one that some silly 
woman at Madame Vallence’s had given him, with the 
words “from Soul to Soul,” engraved within it — and 
lighted a cigarette. 

“ You mean you came because you thought I’d do some- 
thing you want doing cheaper than any one else. And 
since reading that bookplate you feel that I might do it bet- 
ter.” Gale’s voice was flat with weariness: he had tasted 
no brandy for a couple of days, and life seemed to be gnaw- 
ing its way out of him. 


BELLAMY 


259 


Walter Bellamy had seen him like this before. He was 
right in saying that it took a gentleman to be decently 
drunk ; he himself was a living example of it — indeed was 
never quite so much the fine gentleman as when he was 
drunk. Sober he was too wearied and bitter for any show 
of genial courtesy. 

Bellamy had come prepared with a certain offer; but he 
mentally halved it when he realised the straits in which he 
found the other man ; even turned as if to go. “ Oh, well, 
I’ll leave you to it. So long.” 

But Gale did not even turn — for his pride was still 
greater than his greed. He would not grovel, abase him- 
self, to this counter jumper. 

With his hand on the door Bellamy paused. 

It was Gale’s handwriting that he wanted, the fine schol- 
arly scrawl which seemed so natural that one could not im- 
agine him as ever having laboured at pot-hooks and hangers 
— this and his way of expressing a letter; he would never 
get anything like it for the same price elsewhere. 

“ It’s secretarial work. I’m going to start a small busi- 
ness from my own rooms — I’ve left the Burstons, turned 
into the ‘ Adelphi.’ ” 

“ I know/’ 

“How?” questioned Walter in some surprise, with a 
sudden panic as to who, among all his acquaintances, had 
lighted on Gale. 

“ That girl Ada came round, hunted me out to tell me. 
Declared you’d forsaken her.” 

“ Forsaken her ? I like that ! That common little slut. 
That’s what comes of trying to be kind to people. Well 
now, what is it to be ? ” 

Gale had bent lower over the fire, and was stirring the 
embers anxiously with a fragment of stick, as though 
hoping for a blaze. For a moment or so Bellamy watched 
him, smoothing the nap of his hat with his silk handkerchief. 
Then remarked impatiently: — “ Well, I’m off: if you don’t 
care to take it, leave it. Oi’m not goin’ ter maether myself 
about yer,” he added, swayed by a whim, dropping suddenly 
into dialect. 

“ I didn’t say I wouldn’t. How much ? ” 

“ Half a crown a day.” 


26 o 


BELLAMY 


“ I’ll come for five shillings.” 

“ Say three and six.” 

Gale broke into a sharp laugh. “ I knew you’d say that ! 
But you’re progressing, my sweet friend. Six months ago 
you would have suggested ninepence, or one and three; 
perhaps risen to one and nine. But you’d never have ven- 
tured on as much as two shillings.” 

“Well, are you coming?” 

“ Perhaps, if I feel inclined — what day? ” 

“Let me see; it’s Friday, isn’t it. Suppose we say Mon- 
day at nine o’clock.” 

“ Oh, I don’t know. Monday’s a long way off. I can 
make no promises.” The words dropped from Gale slowly 
with the utmost indifference, as if he did not care in the 
least what had become of him by next week. And leaning 
forward he began to blow gently at the fire: scattering a 
cloud of fine ash. 

“ Look here, I’ll pay you for the first day now.” Walter 
Bellamy took out half a crown and a shilling and laid them 
on the table. Once Gale took the money he knew he was 
sure of him. “ Here you are : and remember Monday, 
nine sharp. Au revoir.” 

At the sound of the money being dropped upon the table 
Bellamy saw a red flush creep up the back of the other 
man’s neck ; and before he reached the top of the stairs he 
heard him moving about in the room which he had just left. 

Then, at the first landing, came the sound of the door 
being gently opened: but no footstep followed. Gale was 
waiting — till his visitor had departed — to go out and buy 
the comfort for which his soul craved. 

With malicious amusement Bellamy lingered, knowing 
that he would not pass him. But the stench of the crowded 
place — lying like a thick blanket on either landing — was 
too much for him, and after a moment or so he moved on. 
Hesitated a few yards from the door; then turned to see 
Gale slip close round the lintel, and off down the street in 
the opposite direction. 


CHAPTER XLI 


B ELLAMY’S scheme was well thought out. He was 
going to start — in his own spacious rooms in the 
“ Adelphi ” — a school of mental Science, Psychol- 
ogy and Ideality. 

He had made a fine art of deception. He knew just 
what people wanted to believe: stimulating them by a 
brusqueness which was, at times, almost brutal. At the 
same time he realised to its full the modern idolatry of all 
that was novel ; and that insane curiosity regarding the fu- 
ture, which leads a factory girl to divination from the tea- 
leaves at the bottom of her cup, and a fine lady to crystal- 
gazing: was perfectly aware that there is a type of women 
whom you may frighten, horrify as you will, so long as you 
thrill them with something unexpected and morbid; and it 
was on women like this that he went to work. 

He was quite certain of his success. No spider ever 
wove his web ’with greater foresight than Walter Bellamy 
showed in the curious blue and black arrangement of his 
rooms, with their tall narrow windows opening over the 
gardens to the river. 

There was very little in them, but somehow they were 
mysterious. He felt it himself. The black carpets seemed 
to leave one treading in space ; the straight heavy blue cur- 
tains might have shrouded infinite mysteries among their 
folds. Nothing was normal. He had no flowers, only dis- 
torted dwarf trees in black glazed jars; no fire, only a 
brazier like a watchful eye in each room. Fires crackled 
and chattered : fires were sociable, belonged to real life and 
he would have none of them. 

But in his own room was white enamel and a flowered 
paper and gay pink curtains; and after a while he had a 
chintz-covered arm-chair and writing-table moved in there. 
He had meant to use his professional rooms after business 
hours. But he could not stand them. They kept him 

261 


262 


BELLAMY 


screwed up to the mystical — for he was so instinctively an 
actor that he could not help but fit his mood, his movements, 
the very intonation of his voice, to his surroundings. This 
despite the fact that, from the very depth of his soul, he 
loathed and scorned mysticism, while his happiest moments 
were when he was swinging clubs, in a white gauze vest 
and shorts at the Polytechnic, along with other ruddy, 
healthy, Philistine young men ; punting on the river with 
jolly, soulless girls; or supping — gaily and greedily — 
with Hetty, who loved all the good things of life. 

Soon he was succeeding beyond his wildest expectations : 
money poured in, while his American clientele alone proved 
a large source of income. 

Every client he had ever interviewed at the Virgo came 
to him. He left Madame their hair, their complexions and 
their finger nails; and was quite satisfied with himself. 
After all one could not expect his conscience to reproach 
him, for he had none; while they were both far too astute 
to quarrel. 

Gale, decently fitted out, was installed as permanent sec- 
retary, with a dark-eyed girl who wrote a beautiful hand — 
for Bellamy would not tolerate typing — as underling ; 
while a sedate man-servant — who might have been an 
archdeacon — was engaged to answer the door, and look 
after his own special needs, which were manifold. 

The only thing, at this time, which saved Bellamy from 
complete charlatanism, was that little sub-devil of his. The 
very same that had sat at the back of his mind in the Prim- 
itive Methodist chapel ; doubling itself up with unholy glee. 

When he was actually interviewing his clients he had no 
sense of effort, or invention. To the greater part of him 
the thing seemed almost tragically real, his eyes dilated, his 
face grew pale; at the end of a long day he felt utterly 
wrung out. But still, somewhere at the back of his mind, 
was the sense of it all being a tremendous lark, an iniqui- 
tous, but wholly delightful “ take in.” 

Now Gale liked the blue and black rooms. They suited 
him and he suited them. His air of ascetic refinement was 
a distinct addition to the place, besides he stimulated curi- 
osity. 

But the rooms, and the view of the river, were the only 


BELLAMY 


263 

things that he did like about the job. He was trying, des- 
perately enough, to pull himself together; and now — by 
some irony of fate — it seemed that the only way in which 
he could achieve to a decent life, was by doing that which 
he despised himself for doing. 

Usually he worked in a little ante-room, quite alone. But 
sometimes Bellamy was out, and he was obliged to inter- 
view people; or — if Bellamy refused them — they would 
find their way to Gale’s sanctum and pester him with ques- 
tions. 

It would not have done for him to lock his door; and 
thus every day became an agony for the fear he felt of see- 
ing some one he had known in his old life. Not any one, 
for he was profoundly indifferent to the world in general, 
but just that some one who really counted. 

Years ago, when he was still at Oxford, they had talked 
psychology together. She had the large brown eyes of a 
born mystic. That one glimpse of her outside the Tate 
Gallery had shown him that she was not happy — he knew 
she was not happy, felt almost triumphantly sure — and 
suppose she were driven to some such pinch-beck consola- 
tion as the women who came to Walter for advice. 

The thought got upon his nerves, so that he sickened at 
every step he heard upon the stairs. It was not so much 
that he minded her seeing him there, as the possibility of her 
being there at all. 

Usually he worked steadily enough. But he got odd, 
awkward fits; mostly when he was trying his hardest to 
keep away from temptation. 

One day the girl secretary brought a batch of circulars 
to Bellamy. 

“I had to come to you. What could I do?” she pro- 
tested helplessly : conscience-stricken at the thought of hav- 
ing to give Gale away. “ Look here ; I could not send them 
out, could I?” 

They were all different — as Bellamy insisted that they 
should be — beautifully written on single sheets of rough- 
edged paper, stamped with the address — and for the most 
part directed to very great ladies : intimating — or intended 
to intimate — that now Christmas was over Mr. Bellamy 
was embarking on a new session ; while other items, attrac- 


BELLAMY 


264 

tive to special clients, were to have been added, so that each 
might carry a personal appeal. 

At first glance they were perfectly correct, and Miss 
Shaw might have put them straight into their envelopes; 
addressed them and sent them off, as it was her duty to do, 
had she not happened to read through one in which: — 
“ Belle-amie, Charlatan,” invited Lady So-and-So, to par- 
take of a banquet of “ Mumbo- jumbo and hocus-pocus pie 
in the Western Shades of Avernus.” 

There were not two alike. The words he had got hold 
of were a marvel. Fetichism, vampirism, demonology: 
ghoul and dwerger: bogle and dis. Walter’s select clients 
were invited to Humbug Hall, or. Abaddon: urged to dis- 
cover the precise nature of the cream cheese which consti- 
tutes the moon; to study the sciences of Diddling, Nab- 
bing, Cozenage, Jockey-ship and Flim-flam, “ a la Tar- 
tuffe ” ; or to take their degrees in Aleuromancy, Theomancy, 
Psychomancy, Myomancy, Geloscopy and Gyromancy, un- 
der the directorship of Professor Ben Trovato. 

“ You must destroy them and go on with something else 
for to-day. It’s nearly four o’clock now,” remarked Bel- 
lamy coldly; though his cheek flushed. 

“You won’t — I hope- — Mr. Gale doesn’t seem quite 

himself. I’ve never ” stammered the girl miserably. 

For where Bellamy treated her like a chattel Gale was 
unfailingly courteous. 

“ Leave Mr. Gale to me, please,” answered her employer 
shortly; so shortly that she did not dare to say another 
word. 

Bellamy was furious. A thing like that might have 
ruined his entire business. He could not see Gale at the 
moment, for his whole time until six o’clock was filled up ; 
but his resentment only quickened with the passage of time. 

As they were shutting up, and Gale was slipping into his 
street clothes — Bellamy insisted that those which he him- 
self had given him, and which he wore at business, should 
be kept on the premises — he told him to wait as he wished 
to speak to him. 

Gale obeyed; he had the air of a whipped cur, which 
only wants for an opportunity to snap. Bellamy was fin- 


BELLAMY 265 

ishing some letters in the waiting-room, and he sat down 
by the door; a forlorn enough figure. 

He had put on his wretched clothes; anyhow, all in a 
hurry. His frayed collar was crumpled; his tie on one 
side, his boots laced only at intervals; all this in curious 
contrast to his smoothly shaven face and well-groomed 
head. 

He did not regret what he had done, did not care a 
damn what happened. If he lost this billet — which made 
him look and feel like a cur — he would no longer be im- 
pelled to pull himself together. He could drink brandy 
and feel like a god. Then die: anyhow — anywhere. It 
would all be over the sooner. He had been so much bet- 
ter fed lately, felt so much better. But this — allied to the 
fact that he was obliged to rise betimes in the morning, 
keep himself decently, spend his day in respectable clothes 
— only made him more alive to his condition, more agonis- 
ingly sensitive. He had been so detached — apart ; now he 
realised himself, looked upon himself with horror: was 
suffering much as a man suffers when he comes back to life 
again after being three-quarters drowned. 

Bellamy, seated at his writing-table, began to scribble 
meaningless nothings on the blotting-paper, marking time. 
Suddenly his anger was gone. 

He could have shouted with laughter as he remembered 
the ingenious phrasing of those letters. Each word, ap- 
parelled like a Harlaquin, tumbled, minced, or ambled 
through his brain. He felt he would have given worlds to 
have done it — Gnome, Dis, Dwerger! Where had Gale 
got them from ? They were like the weird haunters of the 
Staffordshire moors. , 

What a lark ! Supposing the letters had been sent. Im- 
agine the fine ladies, lying in bed, all bef rilled and berib- 
boned like toilet pin-cushions — as he had seen them him- 
self, having been sent for on more than one occasion when 
some fair creature had imagined herself at the point of 
death — sipping their tea from egg-shell cups, while they 
opened such epistles. There could be no doubt where they 
came from ; the stamped address was unmistakable. 

He half wished they had gone. Probably the silly crea- 


266 


BELLAMY 

tures would be undeterred : come bleating round him just 
the same. There was no knowing what they would not 
swallow. Only a few seasons ago they had gone, mad over 
a so-called exponent of the Black Arts. 

But there was Gale to be thought of, to be dealt with. 

After all, he could not allow such tricks. 

But where would he be able to find another secretary 
who wrote such a beautiful hand; who looked so like a 
rather cynical saint. One woman had said he resembled 
Voltaire, another that he was the image of St. Francis of 
Assisi. 

Besides, it was not the sort of business one wanted too 
many people in. A man of education who was “ all right ” 
— as he phrased it — might be stupidly punctilious ; cause 
trouble. There were the police to consider. 

No — Gale must be kept at any cost. But he must not 
be allowed to reform too completely. 

He did bitter things when he had been too long sober; 
his manners, too, became jerky and ugly. Bellamy turned 
round and stared curiously at the scarecrow of a man; 
meditating over what was to be done. 

Gale swung to his feet, and thrust his hands in his 
pockets. 

“ Damn you ! ” he said. “ And once again damn you.” 

Bellamy’s look of surprise was admirable, for suddenly 
his decision was taken. “ Why, what have I done ? Kept 
you waiting? I’m frightfully sorry, Gale, but I had these 
letters to finish ; and I thought as we were going to dine to- 
gether ” 

“ Who said we were going to dine together ? ” 

“Why, didn’t they give you my message? There are 
some odds and ends I want to go through with you. And I 
thought if you’d have a bit of dinner with me first, you 
wouldn’t mind coming back for half an hour later on.” 

Gale lounged to the window with his hands in his pock- 
ets ; pulled back one of the heavy curtains, and stared across 
the top of the dark trees at the river; at the indigo sky 
pierced with stars, the brilliantly lighted trams, the flashing 
advertisements at the further side ; the occasional dark hulk 
of a barge, which moved slowly through the water with an 
air of mysterious aloofness. 


BELLAMY 


267 

He was trying to remember what was in those letters. 
He had written them in a fit of vindictive revolt; but he 
could not remember a single word. He was expecting a 
scene with Bellamy, and here was an invitation to dinner. 

True it was accompanied by a request to come back and 
work later in the evening. But then one never expected 
Walter Bellamy to do anything for nothing. 

Perhaps after all Miss Shaw had not told him. Perhaps 
the letters had gone. 

He pretended that he did not care. But for all that his 
relief at the reprieve was so great that he accepted the invi- 
tation, almost with gratitude. Though, as it happened, he did 
not return to work afterwards; nor did he have any very 
clear memory as to how he got home to the more decent 
lodgings where he had lately established himself. 

After all the invitations could not have gone; for he 
wrote them afresh, with solemn propriety, next day. Won- 
dering a little; but never for a moment — though he was 
unusually genial and friendly — thinking of questioning 
Miss Shaw as to the rights of the case. 


CHAPTER XLII 


S PRING — the fourth which Walter Bellamy had 
passed in London — ran its gay and varied course; 
followed by a hot and steamy summer. 

During all this time, with the inevitable reaction of his 
nature, Bellamy sickened of the black and blue rooms ; sick- 
ened of his work; and above all of the unending cor- 
respondence which came with the out of Town season, when 
nearly all his business was conducted by post. 

Things were beginning to run too smoothly ; success was 
too sure, and the taste of dust and ashes filled his mouth 
once more. 

Each member of the staff, which had been augmented by 
another assistant-secretary, took a holiday in turn; even 
Gale vanished for a couple of weeks to some remote Cornish 
village, returning browner, healthier, and altogether more 
difficult to manage. 

But Walter did not leave London, even for a night; 
though there was little to keep him, beyond the dictating 
of the more important letters, and Gale could have managed 
these perfectly with his two assistants to keep him in the 
straight path, while, even if the letters remained unan- 
swered, if he — Bellamy — totally disappeared for a while 
it would only, as he well knew, enhance his importance. 

But where to go and what to do, that was the question. 
He was overpowered with an immense disgust and weari- 
ness, both physical and mental. Life was no longer “a 
lark ” — had become that dullest of all dull things, a stupid 
farce. He had no wish to travel; except for some special 
reason with some definite end — so deeply had his business 
training bitten into him — while though he had a great deal 
more money than many of the young gentlemen who had 
gone off grouse shooting, fishing, or otherwise amusing 
themselves, he could neither fish nor shoot ; and had never 
learnt to play : excepting — as at those tennis parties in the 


BELLAMY 269 

old days, when he had been considering Rose Higgins — 
for some end, or else for the sake of exercise. 

Once more his world had crumbled to pieces. He did 
not know what he wanted to do. But it was “ to do ” 
something — what scarcely mattered — with his whole 
heart and soul which he needed, above all else. 

His business was a large one. But the inevitable se- 
crecy of it prevented anything like universal popularity. 
Sometimes he remembered the old days of the strike in 
Edge, and felt that he would like nothing better than to 
be the Labour leader, swaying the dense masses — which 
he sometimes saw blackening Trafalgar Square — from the 
plinth of Nelson Column. At other times he longed for 
solitude, for wide open spaces; and dreamt of a pioneer’s 
life, breaking up the virgin soil, or cattle-driving on a wild, 
long-tailed, long-maned broncho, with a squaw woman for 
his wife. 

Then he started to write a novel; but sickened at the 
thought of how many people were doing the same thing. 
Dreamt of the stage, and actually went so far as to get an 
introduction to an actor-manager, a friend of Hetty d’Es- 
terre’s. But the thought of two pounds a week, for speak- 
ing the words that some one else put into his mouth, was 
more than he could stomach. One must either enjoy doing 
a thing very much — be having a real fling over it — or 
else be making money. One or the other; and the stage 
promised neither. 

People began to come back to Town, and once more his 
rooms were besieged, his time booked up for days ahead. 
But he no longer had the faintest feeling for what he did: 
secretly mocked both himself and his clients ; was only de- 
terred by his sense of the money involved from being 
openly rude, though the new sting in his teaching rendered 
him all the more popular. 

From the time he left the Virgo Parlour he had received 
innumerable invitations to “ At Homes ” and tea-parties ; 
which he persistently declined. There was no compliment, 
no acknowledgment in things of that sort. If these people 
wanted him at all they must ask him to dinner ; acknowledge 
him as one of themselves. 

Now, early in the autumn season, came the invitation he 


BELLAMY 


270 

had so long coveted ; a personal note — not a card — from 
the Honourable Mrs. Seaton asking him to dine, the pre- 
liminary to a small musical At Home, which — as he 
shrewdly conjectured — was arranged to do away with 
those long, difficult after-dinner hours. 

Still it would have sufficed, had he been in the state of 
mind to feel pleasure, or even pride, in any achievement. 
But almost for the first time in his life — he was physically 
and mentally ill. The last few days had dragged horribly ; 
he ached in every limb, was hot one moment and cold next ; 
while he felt that he would give the whole world if his 
brain would stop working, only for an hour. For his sleep 
was more than half waking, shot through with toppling 
plans, impossible dilemmas ; while — that very evening — 
his dressing was interrupted by a wave of giddiness which 
threw him trembling into an immense black space, where 
the atmosphere was thick as a blanket, pressing against his 
face. 

But for all this he was incapable of approaching any- 
thing in a slack spirit, and had hunted up Mrs. Seaton’s 
name in the Peerage, and made Gale — who had settled 
down, once more, into a state of cynical compliance — sup- 
ply him with further details as to her place in society: 
what would be expected of him, and the set she habitually 
gathered round her. 

In truth the invitation itself had been the result of a 
bet. Mrs. Seaton had declared to her greatest friend, 
Lady Curst, that she would have the handsomest man in 
London at her concert ; and then — having laid five pounds 
upon it, and experienced, before this, the impossibility of 
getting Walter Bellamy to come to any such entertainment 
— had thrown in the dinner as a bait. 

It was not a very imposing affair; through it all Walter 
felt convinced that he could have got far more for the 
money which had so evidently been expended, while the 
people were uninteresting from the mere fact that they 
themselves were not particularly interested in anything, 
though the girl whom he had taken in to dinner — a pretty, 
credulous creature in her first season — seemed willing 
enough to be entertained by her good-looking neighbour. 

Lady Curst had gasped when he was announced, and 


BELLAMY 


271 


caught at her friend’s arm. “ My dear, you’ve won ! I 
acknowledge it — but it might as well have been me,” she 
exclaimed; and, advancing, shook hands with Bellamy, di- 
rectly he had exchanged greetings with his hostess. 

“You don’t remember me, Mr. Bellamy, do you?” she 
enquired archly. 

“ I’m afraid not,” answered the young man, with that 
grave steady-eyed frankness which he found so telling. 

Lady Curst threw out her white beringed hands with a 
gesture of mock despair. “ There,” she cried. “ Oh, you 
men! And I’ve actually lost five pounds over you. But 
at least you can, you shall, pity me.” 

Then, with the unreserve of her kind it all came out. 
She had thought of Bellamy when she took the bet; had 
hoped to produce him later, for the sake of refuting Mrs. 
Seaton’s proud boast. And now, as it happened, they had 
both thought of the same man. “After all, I don’t know 
who’s won ! ” she cried. “ It seems to me that we ought to 
go halves ; what do you say, Mr. Bellamy ? ” 

“ Oh, I’ve won,” declared Mrs. Seaton. " It was I who 
bagged him — I only wish I’d made it a pony instead of a 
fiver, Leila. But where in the world did you two meet?” 

“ In Manchester, of all places. It’s no good you pro- 
testing that you remember me, Mr. Bellamy, because I 
know you don’t. I heard that Madame Vallence had 
started a branch there, last year, you know, Sara,” she 
went on, turning to her hostess, “ or was it the year before ? 
— anyhow ages ago — and went up to have a vein on my 
cheek seen to. Then Mr. Bellamy set me on to telepathy. 
Such a lark ! You think of something, then you will some- 
body else to think of it too — or they will you, which is it ? 
That must have been how we both came to bet about the 
same man ! There’s a proof for you, Mr. Bellamy. Isn’t it 
wonderful — isn’t it extraordinary?” Lady Curst went on, 
as Mrs. Seaton moved away to attend to her other guests. 

“I don’t know,” answered Walter quietly; “it seems to 
me, don’t you know, absolutely natural ; an integral part of 
our everyday life, only people won’t realise it. But you 
don’t live in Manchester, do you ? ” he added, glancing with 
some curiosity at the slim, drooping creature before him; 
decorated with — one could scarcely say clothed in — a 


BELLAMY 


272 

minimum of faintly tinted pink crepe, and a maximum of 
diamonds, which flashed from the waves of her elaborately 
waved hair to the crossed sandals of her pink satin slippers. 

“ Oh, no! I live in an unutterable place called Wantage. 
Or rather I live by it, for though I’m very seldom in the 

place all our money comes from there ” Lady Curst 

laughed, to give point to the borrowed joke, for she was 
considered a wit. “ I wonder if you know anything of that 
part of the world ? ” 

“ I think — I believe I do,” answered Walter. 

“Well, my husband has large interests — mills of sorts 
— there. Something to do with silk, I believe. But really 
I scarcely know ; for though we’ve been married five years, 
I’ve hardly been there at all — I was seedy that summer I 
met you and couldn’t go about much, so stayed there some 
time doctoring up my complexion, and keeping my hair 
loose. Of course it’s awfully dull; there are none of my 
own sort anywhere near — you know all my people thought 
I was doing a frightfully daring thing in marrying a man in 
trade; but we get on perfectly splendidly. I think the se- 
cret of a happy married life really lies in not seeing too 
much of each other, don’t you? We’ve got a very jolly 
little house up here in Town — you must come to tea some 
day; I adore — simply adore London! — next best to 
Paris.” 

“ Is your husband here to-night ? ” 

“ Yes, he’s over there — with the grey moustache ; ” 
Lady Curst gave a little gesture indicating a tall, rather 
heavily built man of middle age : — “ It’s the merest chance, 
for he hates London almost as much as I love it: is per- 
fectly immersed in his horrid old mills. But where do you 
live — and what do you do now ? Are you still in partner- 
ship with Madame Vallence?” 

“ No, I’ve a flat in the * Adelphi,’ ” answered Bellamy, 
and was wondering whether to divulge the nature of his 
present occupation, and obtain Lady Curst as a client, or 
to pass as a leisured fine gentleman, when the last guest 
arrived and he was paired off with his own legitimate part- 
ner. 

Through the greater part of the dinner, however, his at- 
tention was more or less occupied with Sir George Curst, 


BELLAMY 


273 

who, in his turn, devoted himself stolidly and almost in si- 
lence to the serious business of eating; while it was not till 
the subject of dress was started, and some one remarked 
on the prevailing craze of wearing silk on every occasion, 
that he gave vent to any comment sufficiently audible to 
reach the rest of the table. 

“ There’s not half of it that any silk worm ever saw,” he 
said ; “ artificial stuff for the most part.” 

“ Oh, spun silk, you mean ? ” suggested one lady. 

“ Or mercerised ? ” put in another. 

“ No, not really silk at all, but stuff made from wood 
pulp,” answered Sir George: and began to hold forth on 
the subject of his business; totally regardless of his wife, 
who frowned and shook her head, then shrugged her shoul- 
ders as if in despair. 

“ He’s quite hopeless when he starts talking shop,” she 
remarked audibly, but not ill-naturedly, “ and I’m too far 
away to kick him under the table. Poor Mrs. Black, how 
bored she will be! I suppose it’s no good asking her to 
kick him for me.” 

But to Walter this unexpected talk of “ shop ” was the 
one interesting item of the whole affair. For it seemed 
like a breath of new life, after the inanities in which he 
had, of late, been steeped. And directly the ladies had left 
the room he moved round the table, and seated himself by 
the side of the manufacturer, who was now engrossed with 
his walnuts and port wine. 

“ Forgive me — I hope you’ll not think that I’m taking a 
liberty,” he began, “ but I couldn’t help hearing what you 
said about artificial silk.” 

“ I suppose everybody heard,” answered Sir George, with- 
out lifting his head; raising a pair of exceedingly shrewd 
blue eyes for a moment to Walter’s face, then dropping 
them again to the walnut which he was engaged in peeling. 
A typical manufacturing man: an influential man in his 
own world, as one could see at a glance; iron grey where 
he was not bald, with a heavy, smooth-shaven jowl and 
chin, and small closely cut grey moustache. 

“ I don’t know why I started the subject, though,” he 
went on ; “I don’t suppose it’s likely to interest any one 
here.” 


274 


BELLAMY 


“ It interests me immensely,” answered Walter. “ I lived 
with silk, in it and by it for years.” 

“ Where — not in our part of the world? You’re not 
English, are you ? ” 

“ Half French and half English,” answered the young 
man, and thrilled with pride at the recognition of his for- 
eign manner. Then hesitated, wondering how much of 
himself it would be wise to tell. After all, if Sir George 
Curst spoke of him at Edge he would be reported as in good 
company! They might realise something of what they 
had missed. The words “ the stone which the builders re- 
jected” — repeated in the elder’s oily voice — flashed 
through his mind. After all he could make no move with- 
out committing himself, taking more or less of a risk. 

“ But really I know your part of the world quite well,” 
he went on, in his quiet matter-of-fact business voice — 
for by now he chose his intonation and manners as he 
chose his clothes, to suit the occasion : — “ though I’ve lived, 
and done much of my work, in my fatherland, I’ve spent a 
great deal of time at Wantage and Dutton — curious and 
interesting that fustian cutting is, isn’t it — and above all 
Edge. As a matter of fact I was connected with one of 
the largest firms there for a great many years — ‘ Mor- 
rison’s.’ ” Walter Bellamy threw out the name with a 
tentative air. 

“ Oh ! ” The manufacturer gave him a quick, apprising 
glance from under his heavy lids. “ Your name doesn’t 
happen to be Joyce, does it?” 

“ No, sir ; Bellamy’s my name.” 

“ Oh, well, I’m glad of that — I’ve heard a good deal of 
that fellow Joyce, and from all I’ve heard I have reason to 
believe that he’s an ass — but I thought I’d better be sure 
before I said anything. Firm’s going downhill, I believe, 
ever since Morrison himself died. Fine old fellow, Mor- 
rison: a bit of a bully, too highhanded for these days — 
quite incapable of moving with the times — -but a fine fel- 
low for all that.” 

“Yes,” Walter flicked an ash from his cigarette into the 
finger-bowl which stood beside him. There were five other 
men present, apart from himself and Sir George; and 
though his whole attention seemed to be bent on his com- 


BELLAMY 


275 

panion, he was taking in — almost through every pore — 
the movements, words and gestures of all five. 

“ I was very fond of old Mr. Morrison, he was almost 
like a father to me after I lost my own. They were great 
cronies : nothing they both loved like a yarn together ” 

Walter realised that this embroidery might be dangerous 
— remembering the only words which the great mill-owner 
had ever been known to address to his sire — “ You’re a 
damned fool, Bellamy. An’ if you ever dare to turn up in 
my mill again the worse for drink you’ll get your money 

and go — don’t say I’ve not warned you ” still he could 

not resist it. 

“ Really,” he added with a burst of frankness, “ it was 
Mr. Morrison’s death which ultimately caused me to sever 
my connection with the firm — the place didn’t seem the 
same without him. Then the air never suited me.” 

“ And what are you doing now, may I ask ? ” 

“ Well, just at present I’m engaged in research 

work ” for a moment Bellamy hesitated, with the effect 

of a fine shame at the thought of monopolising the conver- 
sation with his own affairs, though really with a convulsion 
of inward mirth — “ conducting a series of little inventions 
in fact.” 

“ To do with silk?” 

“ Oh, yes, in some measure,” he answered airily ; “ silk 
of a sort.” 

“ Hum I so many people think they’ve got hold of some 
new idea, nowadays,” remarked the manufacturer doubt- 
fully. 

“ That’s just my experience, Sir George, and I was afraid 
that’s how you’d feel about it.” 

“ But still I’d like to hear some more of these ideas of 
yours. Suppose you come and lunch with me at my Club. 
The Constitutional — to-morrow, one-thirty; sorry I can’t 
give you longer notice, but I’m only up for a few days. 
By the by, I suppose you know there was a strike up in 
Edge — involving us all — about two years ago. That fel- 
low Burton at the bottom of it of course, a regular fire- 
brand ! But that must have been after you left. I remem- 
ber ” 

Once more the mill owner had embarked on the subject 


BELLAMY 


276 

so near to his heart. And, even after they had joined the 
ladies, their discussion was continued in one corner of the 
drawing-room — while the concert progressed at the other 
end. The two men presented a curious contrast, as they 
stood talking engrossingly together: Bellamy, so tall, ex- 
quisitely groomed and tailored — with his oddly held head, 
his mobile face and brilliant eyes — and the slow, heavily 
built, yet somehow imposing commercial man. 

Yet for all his stolid demeanour, how keen, how far-see- 
ing he was, how completely up to date! His orderly en- 
thusiasm infected Bellamy. Gradually it came back, all the 
ins and outs of the half-forgotten trade. He felt as though 
his mind — strangely fevered and alert — were a thorough- 
bred, curvetting, full blooded, with the very joy of life; 
while he lashed and spurred it to every leap, with high tri- 
umph when each fresh difficulty was surmounted. All the 
languor and depression of the last few weeks lost in a sense 
of immense exhilaration. 

He had almost forgotten how much he knew; really 
knew, for Sir George would not have been an easy person 
to fool with superficialities. Of course he was a little be- 
hindhand: had lost count of the latter day markets. But 
then, as he said, his inventions — one in particular — had 
absorbed him. 

“ Inventions ! ” How full his life had been of them. 
He used the word with subtle delight, thinking of the 
marvellous breed — whimsical enough when you came to 
think of them — which had been hatched in the quiet se- 
crecy of those black and blue rooms alone. 

But, as he talked, the feeling grew upon him that there 
really was, at least, one tangible invention — as in the case 
of the Improved Spooler — which had nothing at all to do 
with the artful lying of the last few years. And not only 
did he convince the great mill-owner of this fact, but he 
convinced himself also : refusing, so persistently, to divulge 
his secret — a real material secret — worth divulging, for 
a consideration — that the other man’s interest was thor- 
oughly aroused. 

Bellamy was pressing his horse very hard now : certain 
that no fence was too high — that it was, indeed, winged, 
strongly as Pegasus itself. 


BELLAMY 


2 77 

His imagination had never yet failed him when he felt 
like this, that something must happen; that the thing he 
sought must come: while never had his intoxicating faith 
in himself soared so suddenly high as on this particular 
evening. 

He seemed so vital, so compelling, racked by these fierce, 
joyous birth pains of a new idea, that even Sir George took 
fire. 

“ When you’ve anything perfected you’ll bring it to me? 
You’ll let me have your word for that? I’ll make it worth 
your while — give you as good terms as any one in the 
trade. And mind, it will be safe with me. If I get hold 
of a man with ideas, I do all I can to keep him going. I 
have no notion of killing a goose that may lay another 
golden egg. There’s some people who’ll steal an idea and 
let the inventor go hang — dishearten him so that he’ll do 
no more. There was an ugly story hanging round * Mor- 
rison’s ’ of Edge — after the old fellow’s death — in con- 
nection with that improved automatic spooler they’ve got 
so tight a hold of : cornered the whole trade with. I won- 
der if you ever heard of it? ” 

Bellamy nodded, drawing up his lower lip above its fel- 
low. 

“Well, there was a case in point! They say the man 
who invented it — some young chap in the mill — got abso- 
lutely nothing for it; and it’s brought them in thousands. 
That’s the sort of thing to take the heart out of any one.” 

“ It seems to me, Sir George, that if a man’s to get on in 
this world he needs an infinite supply of hearts.” 

“Why — why do you say that, Mr. Bellamy? The idea 
of you and George talking about hearts ! ” remarked Lady 
Curst, who had fluttered near them, and now laid one hand 
on her husband’s arm. 

“ Well, with what he loses, and what he has stolen, and 
what he gets broken,” said Bellamy, with a gallant bow. 
Then wished the pair good night and moved across the 
room towards his hostess, who stood surrounded by a little 
crowd of departing guests; congratulating himself on the 
fact that Sir George and Lady Curst were a married couple 
and therefore not likely to discuss their affairs in common. 


CHAPTER XLIII 


O UT in the street — for he had chosen to walk home, 
for the sake of the air — the thought of Sir 
George and Lady Curst returned to Bellamy; and 
he actually stood still to laugh at the thought of how — if 
they did discuss him — they would reconcile the astute 
young business man with the psychic adviser. 

One carriage had just rolled past him, in which he rec- 
ognised the profile of the young girl whom he had taken in 
to dinner, while two men stood still waiting outside Mrs. 
Seaton’s door. But apart from these the quiet street, nar- 
row like so many of the most fashionable quarters, was 
empty; and suddenly with a sense of fear Bellamy realised 
that he had actually laughed aloud, a harsh ugly laugh 
which was echoed back to him by the high houses on either 
side. 

For a moment more he stood still, then hurried on blindly ; 
stumbling as he went. For it appeared as if something 
had happened ; some mooring broken loose. 

He had felt that a change was imminent. And here it 
was upon him, though even now he could realise nothing 
more than a sort of wild emptiness. Was it that he had 
spurred his mind — his imagination or memory — he 
scarcely knew which — too fiercely ; or was it the result of 
those long weeks of deadly depression and spiritual nausea? 

He could not say. All he knew was that something 
which had hitherto held him in touch with the sane com- 
monplace affairs of life — perception which governed his 
sense of time and place — was gone; and all the way home 
felt as if he was stepping so high he could not believe his 
foot would ever touch earth again; while his head was far 
away and light, a mere throbbing brain. 

Two shadowy and, as it seemed, distant figures crossed 
the pavement in front of him — a young man and a girl, 
coming out of a house toward a waiting taxi. 

278 


BELLAMY 


279 


Suddenly, to his amazement, Bellamy collided with the 
girl : walked straight into her — and then stood apologising. 

“ A thousand pardons — I don’t know how it happened. 
There’s something wrong — I — I — you looked a tremen- 
dous way off, you know; and now — now,” he stammered 
and then went on in desperation. “Everything’s like that. 
I don’t know how I’m going to get home. I can’t tell you 
how sorry I am — deeply regret. But you know there is 
something wrong — it’s my head, I think — it won’t come 
down, and the pavement won’t stay up,” he laughed; try- 
ing to express this disconcerting fact as being something 
of a joke, though there was a hint of appeal in his voice. 

“ Get out of that, you drunken beast ! ” The girl’s com- 
panion elbowed him roughly aside; then as he followed the 
two to their taxi, still stammering on, his hat in his hand, 
added, — “ Go home and put your head under a pump.” 

But curiously enough, though he realised his behaviour 
as that of a drunken man, Bellamy was completely sober; 
in truth drink was not one of his failings, for he was too 
vain to relish making an exhibition of himself. And all 
the way home he struggled desperately to make out what 
was wrong with him; while his mind worked at an almost 
inconceivable rate, one thought following another, and dis- 
appearing like so many blazing comets. 

When he did at last reach his flat he felt so horrible 
weary and sorry for himself that he could have cried for 
some one to undress him, put him to bed, and tuck him up 
like a child. But the ecclesiastical-looking man-servant 
slept off the premises. There was nobody there. 

He thought of a hot bath ; and going into the bathroom 
stared vacantly at the bath, without being able to remember 
what he was there for. 

Then the idea of telegraphing to a doctor occurred to 
him ; and he went into his consulting-room, where he opened 
the telephone book, and stood, turning over the pages, for 
some moments before he realised that he did not even know 
the name of any doctor. 

After all it did not matter ; all he wanted was bed. And 
undressing he got in and lay down on his right side. Then 
found that the light coming through, a crack of the blind 
was in his eyes, and solemnly getting out — with much 


28 o 


BELLAMY 


pain and weariness — walked round the foot, and climbed 
in again before he realised that the same thing might have 
been accomplished merely by turning from one side to an- 
other. 

It was a horrible night ; he was burning hot and yet shiv- 
ering; while the time crawled, or progressed in bounds 
which jolted him to the verge of eternity. 

Next morning Hansen, the man-servant — who arrived, 
soon after seven each morning, and had strict orders not to 
call his master till he was rung for — busied himself in the 
pantry preparing breakfast; glancing now and then at the 
clock, as the time went on; wondering a little at Bellamy’s 
lateness — for the old days at the mill had broken him into 
early habits, which had become second nature — but feeling 
neither curious nor disturbed, till the charwoman who did 
the rooms came and told him that Mr. Bellamy must be up ; 
in fact had some one in his bedroom, whom he was talking 
to, quarrelling with as it sounded to her. 

Even then Hansen refused to be disturbed, but all the 
same his curiosity was aroused ; and a few minutes later — 
finding a pretence to linger by Bellamy’s door — he was 
struck by something in the high-pitched voice, the incessant 
stream of words: knocked, and receiving no answer — en- 
tered to find his master in a high fever ; and raving — prin- 
cipally of silk, psychic phenomena and Jane — Jane who 
was to prevent the ceiling from falling on him ; to hold him 
from floating away into space ; to put her cool hand on his 
forehead — above all to save him — though from what 
there was no telling. 

“Save me, Jane! Jane, Jane, save me!” 

Almost at once the whole flat was in a state of disorder. 
The two girl secretaries arrived and foregathered with the 
charwoman and caretaker at Bellamy’s door, while Hansen 
delivered himself of his verdict. It was delirium tremens : 
he was sure of that, for in all his experience no gentleman 
had ever “ carried on ” in such a fashion for any other 
reason. He might pull through; then again he might not, 
there was no telling — there were cases, etc., etc. 

“ But something must be done — surely something can 
be done,” urged Miss Shaw; while the other girl clung to 


BELLAMY 


281 

her arm shaking from head to foot. They had neither of 
them ever liked Bellamy — who treated them as though 
they were a part of their typewriting machines — but the 
insistent appeal in his voice would have moved a stone. 

Yet still nothing was done, beyond talking, till Gale — a 
little late as usual, still in his shabby street suit — entered 
Bellamy’s room : gave one glance at the tossing figure on the 
bed, and sent the charwoman off for the nearest doctor. 

“ What doctor ? — Any doctor ! Don’t tell me you don’t 
know every doctor and undertaker in the neighbourhood — 
and you a char-lady ! D. T. ? — fiddlesticks, how in the 
world was he to get D. T. I’d like to know? Telephone 
for some ice, Hansen, and for God’s sake keep the place as 
quiet as you can. You, Miss Shaw and Miss Ashton, had 
better get to the morning letters, if you will. I’ll stay with 
Mr. Bellamy. No, there’s nothing else, thank you.” 

It was all very quietly done ; but the different members 
of the household dropped back into their places like the 
fragments of a puzzle; and by the time the doctor arrived 
the flat was quiet, and there was an iced cloth round Bel- 
lamy’s head; while the streak of light which had showed 
down one side of the blind — and at which he had been 
glancing, sweating and shying like a nervous horse — was 
screened by a table-cloth that had been pinned across it. 

The doctor — a young and painstaking professional man 
— made an examination, and hummed and hawed a good 
deal, evidently afraid of committing himself. It might be 
typhoid fever — then again it might be brain fever — it was 
very difficult to diagnose such cases in their very early 
stages. But anyhow the temperature was dangerously 
high, and there was great mental excitement. He would 
prescribe a soothing draught and call again in a few hours ; 
meanwhile the patient — Walter Bellamy who had never 
been any one’s patient before ! whose fiery vitality had sud- 
denly, as it were, got the bit between its teeth — must be 
kept very quiet ; he would send round a proper ice-bag for 
the head. Constant watching, both night and day was 
necessary and he would advise trained nurses ; also that any 
immediate relations or friends should be informed of the 
state of affairs. 


282 


BELLAMY 


“ You are no relation yourself ? ” he remarked interroga- 
tively, drawing on his gloves, his puzzled eyes wavering 
between Gale and the sick man. 

“ No.” 

“ I see, merely a friend.” 

“ No, merely an employe.” 

“ Oh ! ” the young doctor stared ; for this shabby stran- 
ger, so very cool and so very much at home, was difficult to 
place — either in conjunction with the blue and black 
rooms, through which he had passed, or the pink and white 
bedroom — though unmistakably of a finer fibre than the 
sick man, with his brilliant good looks, his sudden lapses 
into almost unintelligible dialect — through all his ravings 
there was not a word of French — his incessant cry for, 
his complete dependence on, this unknown Jane. 

The doctor hesitated. Curiosity was unprofessional; but 
he was still human, try as he would to disguise the fact. 

“ This lady, whom the patient so constantly mentions — 
it’s always as well to satisfy any reiterated cravings if pos- 
sible. Perhaps you know ” 

“ I know nothing.” Gale’s glance was so cold that it 
repelled any further questioning. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll 
just send some one to the chemist with this prescription.” 
He moved to the door and stood there in an attitude which 
somehow compelled the doctor to leave the room before 
him, wished him a courteous good-bye, and then sent Miss 
Ashton, the junior typist, off to the chemist. 

“ A pragmatical fool of a fellow,” he muttered ; and 
going back into the sick-room, stood by Walter’s bed look- 
ing down at him. 

After all how little we ever know of each other! The 
more intimate our relationships the more terrifying our 
loneliness, our sense of apartness. During the last three 
years these two had been constantly associated. Bellamy 
was a great talker: never ceased talking except with the 
deliberate desire to impress some one with his silence — 
yet he had hardly mentioned his past life : had never men- 
tioned any people connected with it in any way. 

There was only one thing for it, and Gale called Hansen 
into his room, leaving Miss Shaw temporarily in charge. 

“ Look here, Hansen, do you know anything of Mr. Bel- 


BELLAMY 283 

lamy’s own personal life? Whether he has any near rela- 
tions or anything of that sort?” 

“N o, sir, absolutely nothing. Mr. Bellamy was always 
talking of himself, sir, but he never not seemed to tell 
much.” 

“ Well, I’ve got to find out if there's any one who ought 
to be sent for. Have there been any letters lately ? ” 

“ Only business letters, and from London ladies, sir. 
Mostly he hands them over to you or Miss Shaw, or tears 
’em up — often as not throws them into the waste-paper 
basket.” 

“ Well, the only thing will be for me to go through some 
of his private papers. Get me Mr. Bellamy’s keys, and 
then you can go and sit with him till the nurse comes.” 
Gale spoke deliberately; he hated prying, and was deter- 
mined that — since it was necessary — he would do it as 
openly as possible. 

But after all how little there was. 

Surely no man had ever kept so few landmarks of the 
past. The one small drawer, which held Bellamy’s private 
papers, was almost empty. There were a few very indis- 
creet letters from great ladies, with famous names, which 
might well have been used for the purpose of blackmail; 
a good many carefully docketed receipts, and a few bills — 
mostly for clothes; several scented scrawls from Hetty 
d’Esterre, whom Gale knew well by sight, mostly assigna- 
tions for supping or dining ; and lastly, poked in at the back 
of the drawer, two long letters — which Gale did not read 
beyond the name and address — in a careful, uneducated 
hand on thin common paper, signed “ your sincere friend 
and well wisher Jane Irwin.” 

It was not much, but it was enough. And going back to 
Bellamy’s room Gale encountered Hansen who was just 
showing in the nurse; stopped and spoke a few words to 
her; stood for a moment staring down at the sick man — 
still tossing and calling upon that one name — then, picking 
up his shabby hat, went downstairs and made his way to 
the nearest telegraph office. 


CHAPTER XLIV 


J ANE arrived at nine o’clock that night, in a four- 
wheeled cab from Euston. Her modest luggage, con- 
sisting of a wicker basket, inside with her to keep it 
from the damp, for it was raining heavily. 

She had rung at the lower, front-door bell, and the care- 
taker showed her up; pressed the electric button of Bel- 
lamy’s flat, and handed her over to Hansen. 

“ I’m Jane Irwin, mayhap you’ve heard as I was coming,” 
she announced calmly. Walked in before him ; hesitated 
while he opened a door out of the vestibule, and entering 
the large reception-room gazed round her with wide, dis- 
approving eyes. 

“ Eh, now, Oi didn’t know as Wally lived in an apart- 
ment house ; an’ that gloomy an’ all. No wonder as he’s ill. 
Eh, Maester, but this London’s an awful place! The nar- 
row streets an’ the smell; and the crowd, loike a fifth o’ 
November procession as never stops ! ” 

She had slipped off her coat as she spoke — the same 
brownish green waterproof — and now taking off her black 
sailor hat laid it on the end of a blue brocade sofa : stabbed 
her hatpins with a decided air into the cushions, and gave 
herself a little shake. 

“Are you a friend of our Wally’s, may I ask? Mr. — 

Mr. ” she began, politely turning to Hansen. 

“ No, I’m Mr. Bellamy’s butler-valet.” 

“Oh!” Jane’s grave eyes ran thoughtfully over the 
stout figure, in the smooth black cloth and fine linen — 
evening-dress in the morning and all ! — with a look which 
was not altogether one of approval. For to the independ- 
ent northern mind the pampered menial is but a poor thing 
at the best ; and her next words were uttered with as much 
cool hauteur as though she were a duchess. 

“ Well, I’ll trouble you to show me the way ter his room.” 
“ I don’t know, Miss — I — I’ll call Mr. Gale,” answered 
the man and vanished, genuinely disconcerted by the con- 


BELLAMY 


285 

trast between the young woman’s dress and manner; while 
Jane left to herself took the thick corded hem of one of 
the brocade curtains between her finger and thumb, feeling 
it with frowning brow. Silk — real silk and satin ; and the 
carpet under her feet like soft black velvet: and a servant 
like a Church of England minister ! 

No wonder Wally was ill! Things like that must have 
wanted some working for — Wally couldn’t do it on two 
pounds a week ; not on four neither : and that was as much 
as the head over-looker at her mill got — then to think of 
the dust those carpets must hold! 

She glanced down at her dirty little clogs. How they had 
clattered up all those stairs ! The telegram had been 
brought to her at her work — even now there were strands 
of multi-coloured silk hanging on to her black skirt — and 
she had raced home to get a few things together, knowing 
she was just in time to catch the last train — and had not 
even waited to change. 

She glanced at her luggage, which she had brought up 
herself, and which now lay on the floor: looking sadly 
plebeian and out of place in the lofty room, with its odd 
paucity of furniture, and those three high windows with 
their long blue curtains — “ Thirty yards of double width 
material at least ! ” she thought. 

Anyhow she would not add to the dust which must al- 
ready lie in the gloomy, black depths of that carpet — black 
of all colours, without so much as a bunch of flowers on it. 
Wally must have got it out of economy, thinking it would 
not show the dirt, how like a man; every woman realised 
the advantage of a good all over pattern — and having 
kicked off her clogs, she was kneeling tugging at the straps 
of her basket with small capable hands, when Francis Gale 
entered, and stood looking down at her ; the neat little figure 
in the black skirt, black and white blouse and white collar ; 
the small head with its silvery gold hair, smoothly parted, 
and caught up into a great fleecy knob at the back. 

" I like the way she has with her curls, 

Done to a ball in a net behind.” 

He was thinking — though where the quotation came 
from he could not have said — when Jane mastered the last 


286 


BELLAMY 


buckle, and raised her face, so that he saw the grey eyes — 
clear as a child’s — the long curling lashes, the ridiculous 
nose, the soft, sweet mouth. 

“ Oi was just goin’ ter get mesen a pair of slippers,” she 
remarked serenely. “ Clogs be hefty, cluttering things to 
be about in when there’s sickness in a house ; ” she took off 
the top of her basket as she spoke, and diving into it brought 
out a pair of crimson felt slippers, then a pork pie, which 
she placed gingerly on a piece of paper upon the ebony table. 

“ He was always a rare ’un for pork pies, was our Wally ; 
an’ I thought, when he was better enough, so as ter fancy 
solid stuff ” 

“ I’m afraid that won’t be for some time. He’s very ill, 
Miss Irwin.” 

Jane — seated on the very edge of one of the chairs pull- 
ing on the slippers — raised her head, her small face white 
with fatigue ; her eyes, circled with black, serene and tender. 

“ Don’t ’ee take on,” she said. “ It wouldn’t be Wally if 
he wasn’t very much whatever he was, that’s certain. An’ 
I’ve known him ever since we both could walk. He won’t 
be took yet, won’t Wally,” and she shook her head with an 
odd little smile. 

“ Why do you say that ? ” 

“ Well, he ain’t not ready yet,” her tone was one of infi- 
nite simplicity and finality. “ But tell me what does it seem 
loike, the sickness as has took him. Not — not ! ” her voice 
wavered, the colour went out of her cheeks: suddenly she 
was afraid. For even Wally, the audacious and indomita- 
ble Wally, might not be proof against that insidious white 
plague which claims its victims by the hundreds in Edge. 
“ It’s not — not decline? ” 

“ Decline?” 

“ Consumption, they names it down south.” 

“ No, no — it’s a sort of breakdown. He’s been off col- 
our for some time — something to do with his brain. I 
think I ought to prepare you. He’s raving — slightly de- 
lirious — talking all the time.” 

“ Ay, lod, but^ Wally alius did that.” 

“ It was hearing him use your name that made me wire 
to you.” Gale glanced at her curiously ; could it be that she 
was utterly indifferent, utterly cold? 


BELLAMY 


287 

“ Well, I’ve coom, an’ now there’ll be no need ter 
maether.” She spoke more sedately than ever to hide her 
joy at the thought that Wally had needed her. “ Yer’d bet- 
ter be all getting away ter yer beds ; or yer’ll not be up fur 
yer work te’-morrow come morninY’ 

“ We’ve had some trouble trying to find a night nurse, 
but ” began Gale again. 

“ What would you be wantin’ a hired nurse for, with me 
here ? ” the colour flamed up into the delicate face, giving 
the lie to Gale’s suspicion of coldness. “ If yer’ll show me 
the way ter the sink, Maester — Maester ” 

“ My name’s Gale.” 

With her steady eyes full upon him Jane put out her 
hand. “ Oi’m sure I’m very pleased ter meet yer, Maester 
Gale ; I hope yer well,” she said politely. And then added, 
“If yer’ll just go point me the way ter the sink Oi’ll wash 
mysen — fur Oi’m all mucky with the train — then go ter 
Wally. An’ dwarn’t thee taeke on, me lod.” She laid a 
gentle hand on Gale’s arm, stricken by his haggard air. 
“ He’ll be all right now; he’s not one ter die young, Wally 
ain’t.” 

Having shown her into the bathroom, with its bewilder- 
ing array of nickel taps, Gale wandered back into the re- 
ception-room ; his hands thrust into the tops of his trousers 
— an attitude which always told of dejection — and stood 
for a moment, regarding himself in the mirror above the 
mantel-shelf with an air of bitter mockery. She thought 
he looked like that because Walter Bellamy was ill — this 
small, incomparable Jane — when it was nothing but the 
result of a long diet of husks. As if he cared a hang about 
anything or anybody — any more than Bellamy himself, or 
any other man. He did not want the fellow to die, because 
it meant the loss of his billet, that was all the feeling he was 
capable of in these days, or so he told himself. 

With a shrug he turned towards the middle of the room : 
picked up the small muddy clogs, and stood turning them 
over thoughtfully, in his hands. 

“ So this is Jane — and Jane’s shoe — so much wood and 
brass and leather for so little a foot. I wonder what she’ll 
make of the day nurse — I wonder what she’ll make of any 
of us! Hansen,” he turned to the man who had entered, 


288 


BELLAMY 


noiselessly as usual, “ take these and have them cleaned ; 
and that ” — he pointed to the pork pie. “ Mr. Bellamy 
will want it directly he is well enough to eat solid food.” 
The corners of his mouth twitched: never before had any- 
thing sat down in so solid a manner as that pork pie on the 
carved ebony table. “ And — by the by is Mrs. Grant still 
here? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” Hansen always assumed his most perfect 
and monosyllabic m-anner to Gale ; recognising — with the 
unerring instinct of a superior man-servant — the real thing 
when he saw it. For though the quiet shabby man might 
have come down in life, even so he was preferable to what 
the butler himself termed the “ jumped-ups.” 

“ Well, tell her to fetch this basket and get some sort of 
a place ready for Miss Irwin ” — It was the last time that 
name was heard in the “ Adelphi ” flat ; for by the next day 
she was Jane — just plain Jane — to Gale, to the char- 
woman, nurse and doctor: even to Hansen, who regarded 
her, almost with affection, as being true to class — “ There’s 
my room — she’d better have that. It’s quiet and there’s a 
big sofa if she wants to rest in the day. That will do, Han- 
sen. Ah ! there’s the bell ; I suppose it’s the doctor — take 
those things out, and tell the nurse.” 


CHAPTER XLV 


J ANE seemed so cool that Gale was afraid she might 
have received a shock, when she first entered the sick- 
room, to see Bellamy, tossing and flushed, with the 
white bandages round his head: to realise that he did not 
even know her, though he never ceased to call upon her 
name. 

But Jane Irwin was one of those people who are always 
sent for in any time of sickness, death or fear, and during 
her whole life had lived cheek to jowl with all three: in a 
crowded community; in small houses with walls so thin 
that one must be for ever joining — if only vicariously — 
in the throes of birth or death ; not only with those of one’s 
own household, but with the neighbours at either side. 

Such nearness breeds in the best a sort of outward hard- 
ness, combined with a wide humanity. And thus Jane — 
drooping a little with fatigue, and paler than ever — 
stood calmly enough by Walter Bellamy’s side, one cool 
hand clasped round his wrist, while the doctor made his 
examination: assumed her place as a night nurse, listened 
attentively to the directions which were given her, and asked 
a few questions, breaking off now and then to bid Walter 
lie still. 

“ There, there, lod, dinna’ maether. It’s all roight now ; 
Jane’s come. There, there, Jane’s along o’ thee now,” she 
murmured over him ; an assurance, which gradually — even 
during the half-hour which the doctor spent in the room — 
seemed to influence his wavering mind; bring him some 
measure of peace. 

Gale did not attempt to go home that night — why he 
scarcely knew — for with the nurse and Jane in the flat and 
the telephone at hand there was little reason for him to 
remain. But still he stayed — curiously interested, a little 
ashamed to go when he was credited with so much feeling 
slipping in and out of the sick-room with relays of pow- 


BELLAMY 


290 

dered ice, alert at the faintest stir. Though to please Jane 
he was obliged to lie down on a sofa and make a pretence 
of sleep; while she — after her long journey and long day’s 
work — sat bolt upright at the bedside, gently patting Wal- 
ter Bellamy’s shoulder, as one pats a restless child to sleep, 
making no display of emotion or feeling. 

It was the same all through his illness — which flamed 
the worst of itself out in a little over a week, for it was 
neither brain fever nor typhoid, nor any other recognisable 
disease, and therefore, in the end, diagnosed as a nervous 
breakdown — through all the weakness and lassitude that 
followed it ; the fidgety and exacting convalescence ; while 
it was wonder to them all when she slept or ate, and how 
she lived, unless upheld by some mysterious, ever-burning 
inward flame. 

“ She’s like a night-light in a dark room,” said the nurse. 
And though the simile was not a poetical one it suited her 
as few others could have done. For that was what she 
seemed: so steady and sure, so exactly the right thing in 
the right place. 

Yet at the beginning all alike believed her indifferent. 
Among them, Hetty d’Esterre, who almost forced her way 
into Bellamy’s rooms, and wept and stormed at Jane’s im- 
movable, matter-of-fact air. “ Poor old Bellamy ! a real 
knock-out, old Bellamy ! Why don’t you send for more doc- 
tors, do something? For God’s sake, woman, why don’t 
you do something ? ” 

She had come laden with flowers and chocolates “ to 
cheer Wally up,” and was appalled at the state in which the 
ebbing fever had left him. Just conscious, able to recognise 
her with a faint smile, yet white as the sheet beneath his 
chin. And silent — that was what frightened her ; that he, 
Walter Bellamy, should not have so much as a word to say 
for himself. “ Why don’t you do something — anything? ” 
she demanded again, as Jane followed her out into the vesti- 
bule; put her plump beringed hands on her shoulders and 
almost shook her. “ He wants eggs and brandy : fizz, any- 
thing, to pick him up — he’ll be dying if you leave him like 
that; why, he looks ready to sink clean through the bed 
as it is.” 

“ He’s doin’ fine,” answered Jane quietly, very white with 


BELLAMY 


291 


long watching ; perhaps a little whiter since Hetty’s appear- 
ance on the scene. “ Don’t thee maether, me luv\ ’Ee 
now, don’t thee maether, Wally’s doin’ fine.” She was 
wondering, with an odd sense of groping in the darkness 
among new things, as to what was the relationship between 
the two. But whatever it might be one thing was certain 
— - Wally was all right, it was always the people who loved 
him that suffered. 

Hetty stared, mopping her eyes fiercely with a scrap of 
lace. “ My word ! If you ain’t the limit ! And you’re 
from the same place; were playmates when you were kids, 
not just come an’ go pals like Bellamy an’ I. Yet look how 
upset I am ! I don’t know when I got such a knock over 
as I did when I heard the poor old fellow was ill. And you 
— no one ever thought of Bellamy as ill somehow — per- 
haps you were sweethearts, you and him ? ” 

“Such talk!” Jane’s lips were set firmly, but her fair 
face flooded with a delicious colour. And suddenly the 
other woman — a blue humming-bird this time, in sapphire 
velvet and black furs — darted forward and kissed her. 

“You do care! You do; for all your cool ways. And 
look here, I tell you straight ! ” Hetty’s tone was frank. 
“ I can stand anything better than folks as haven’t got no 
feeling. But you do care ; and you’re a dear, an’ as pretty 
as paint into the bargain.” 

It was strange how many there were to care. But it 
seems that the less people give of affection or honesty in 
this world the more they get — which is no encouragement 
to the loving of one’s neighbour as one’s self, but true for 
all that. Indeed, there were few men who could have given 
less of either than Walter Bellamy; and yet the acquaint- 
ances — nay, more, friends — whom he had achieved ! while 
many believed themselves better — perhaps were better be- 
cause of that belief — for the diet of lies on which he had 
fed them. 

The Duchess of Mountjoy — who called to enquire, after 
reading one of the notices which had appeared in all the 
principal papers, to the effect that Mr. Bellamy was too ill 
to see any of his clients for some time — voiced the feeling 
of many of them when she declared almost with tears, that 
he had “ taken her out of herself,” and taught her how to 


BELLAMY 


292 

think — a feat of necromancy which bore better fruits than 
many a worthier tree. 

In the ebb and flow of reason — when, for a moment or 
so, Bellamy seemed to get his feet, before being swept back 
into a tossing sea of delirium, where the touch of Jane’s 
cool little hand was all that held him to life — the wavering 
idea, which had haunted him on the night of Mrs. Seaton’s 
dinner-party, took shape. 

He had been right. He knew that he would get it : knew 
it must come. If not exactly an invention; but the germ of 
an invention, which would set his name flaming through the 
silk world: revolutionise his old trade! Coventry, Wan- 
tage, Dutton, Edge — above all Edge, the town of his birth ! 
would — thrill to it. It was better than a crowd in Trafal- 
gar Square ! Better than the adoration of a few hysterical 
women, however select. 

And yet, after all it was nothing new, but the recurrence 
of a memory which he had brought back with him from 
America, and which now returned to him — mingled with, 
and shot through with, many incongruous memories, in 
which all his past life seemed like a kaleidoscope, that some 
malicious and gigantic hand would not let lie. 

Still, with the intensity of all Bellamy’s “ great ideas,” it 
held and grew stronger. And almost his first conscious 
words to Jane, still upright at the side of his bed, were rela- 
tive to it. 

“ Plain Jane, .1 want to see a man — Sir George Curst — ■ 
about some business.” 

“ Ay, ay, me lod.” 

Walter Bellamy gave a shrug of irritation. “ Ay — 

ay ” he mocked ; “ you say ay, ay, but you treat me 

like a fool.” 

“If more people treated you that gait, Oi’m thinking 
they’d be less fool than you, me lod.” 

“ I’m master here.” 

“ Ay, yer maester right enough,” she responded sooth- 
ingly. 

“ And I say I must see Curst.” 

“ Sakes alive, do yer think that Oi’ve got th’ chap, who 
ever he may be, in my pocket?” Jane rose as she spoke 
and crossed the room, bent over the fire for a moment or 


BELLAMY 


293 


so, then returned to the bedside with a cup in her hand. 

‘^You taeke yer pap now, an’ don’t be talkin’, or we’ll be 
havin’ you goin’ soft again.” 

“ I’ll get Gale to write ” despite his irritation Bel- 

lamy’s lips twitched with amusement: was there ever any 
woman so unchangeably practical as Jane? That was 
what made one always come back to her. 

“ Jane,” she was leaning over him, one firm arm beneath 
the pillow. For a moment his face grew softened and 
whimsical; he looked more like his old boyish self than he 
had ever done since he embarked upon that great business 
of “ getting on ” : “ Jane, did you — I bet you did — bring 
me a pork pie from Edge?” 

She was still leaning over him, tipping the cup of beef-tea 
with anxious brow, but now their eyes met, and she laughed. 
After all how well they understood each other. 

“Ye great fool,” she said, laid him back gently and patted 
his shoulder, “to be talkin’ o’ pork pies an’ you but just 
gettin’ clear o’ the gate o’ death — not ter mention hell,” 
she added with severe brow, “ for the hussies as come here 
askin’ after yer, an’ the paint an’ the powder an’ the brass 
o’ them’s past telling. Why, they’re worse, out an’ out 
worse, nor the girls as sing in the Picture Pallis up Edge,” 
she added. For to Jane’s mind these young women 
touched the uttermost point of brazen audacity. 

She was obliged to scold him — it was her way with him 
— but for all that she did not care a rap about the fine ladies 
who came in rustling silks, laden with hothouse flowers, to 
enquire after the patient, her patient! As for Hetty, she 
found that her grief was evanescent; her moods as many 
as her pals; while the only one who really disturbed her 
peace of mind was Ada Burston — poor tawdry, delicate 
Ada, whose face during her first few visits was swollen 
with crying — and to Ada Jane gave what she called some 
plain speaking for her own good. 

“ It’s no manner o’ use your settin’ your heart on Walter 
Bellamy,” she said, “ for he’s bespoke to me, an’ has been 
for more years than you’ve been able ter walk. Oi’d have 
more pride, Oi would, if Oi was as pretty as you be, me 
wench ” — artful Jane! giving the sugar with the powder — 
“ than ter come hangin’ round another ’ooman’s-young man.” 


CHAPTER XLVI 


FEW days later Jane told Bellamy what she had 



done. It was the first time he was up, and he sat 


JL X. in a deep armchair, wrapped round with a sumptu- 
ous fur motor coat ; looking out over the gardens, where a 
faint rosy promise of buds lay across the tops of the trees 
— for already there was a breath of spring in the air. 

He had been quiet and tranquil enough since the fever 
left him, for once content to drift with the stream. But the 
stir and fatigue of getting up seemed to have roused him to 
something of his old restlessness ; while he was all on edge 
awaiting an answer to the letter which he had made Gale 
write to Sir George Curst, asking for an interview. 

“What did you say that for?” he turned a little and 
looked at Jane, who was sitting by the fire knitting her 
brows over the darning of some of the fine silk socks which 
she had found in a great pile in one of his drawers — as 
if he had opened one pair after another and then thrown 
them aside, real silk, too! 

“ The silly wench was frettin’ her heart out fur you. 
Oi thought it wur better to put an end ter it one way or 
another,” she answered serenely. “ It’s no good sneepin’ a 
poor fond thing o' that sort. ‘ No more o’ yer soft/ I said, 
4 fur Oi’m bespoke ter him mesen.’ She’ll feel more settled 
loike in her mind now, the wench, and likely enough take 
up with some decent boy.” 

“ It was a lie ! ” Walter was amused, but the glance he 
fixed on Jane had rather something cruel in it. “Jane! I 
didn’t think you’d ever tell a lie ! ” 

“ The loys Oi tell won’t run hell out o’ fire, young 
Wally!” she snapped with sudden tartness' in her voice — 
for her conscience pricked her — holding her needle up to 
catch the light on the eye of it. 

“Jane, I don’t want to marry — I don’t know how I’d 


BELLAMY 295 

stand it — I’d feel all tangled and tied up.” Bellamy spoke 
pettishly, yet almost with an air of apology. 

“ Oh ! ” the interjection was dry ; “ well, it ’ud be nothing 
ter what the ’ooman ’ud feel, Oi reckon.” 

“ And yet you told that Burston girl ” 

“ If I’ve told one loy in my life, young Walter, I’ve took 
care as it should be a loy, an’ no half an’ half about it, 
neither.” Jane was flushed and angry as she rose from her 
chair ; though she could scarcely have said why. 

“ Yet we used to think we’d be married some day, eh, 
Jane ? ” 

“ Speak fur yourself.” 

“ Jane, you know I’m not the marryin’ sort, I ” 

" The less fools ter be bred in the world ! It’s time yer 
wur back in yer bed. Oi’ll call that there man-servant o’ 
yourn. It’s an odd thing to my thinkin’ when a chap gets 
too fine an’ penikitty ter let a woman do for him; fur it’s 
certain sure as ’twas a female as washed him when he came 
into the world, an’ ’ull wash him again when he goes out.” 

Jane had rolled all the socks into little round hard balls 
as she spoke, and gathering them together in her apron, was 
moving past Walter’s chair — almost with a flounce — when 
he caught at her gown and held her. 

“ Jane,” there was something relentless in the insistent 
curiosity of his bright eyes, as he peered up into her face, 
“ would you marry me now, Flower-face ? ” 

“ No, an’ that’s flat.” 

“ Because I’ve been ill — because I’m a wreck ? ” It was 
a deliberate fishing for some food to his vanity, but Jane 
refused to rise to it. 

“ No, but a’cause yer a blitherin’ fool as hasn’t no thought 
fur anybody savin’ Walter Bellamy,” she snapped; pulled 
her dress free and was gone. 

She was always like this : tart and sharp with Walter as 
she was with no one else ; it was a species of barrier which 
she put up between him and her feelings for him. But on 
this particular day, she was really hurt ; more by his manner 
and look than by anything else. Perhaps it was that she 
had seemed to have got so much nearer to him during his 
illness, and that had made her tender. But, whatever it 
might be, the feeling that he was analysing her — using her 


296 BELLAMY 

as he used every one else — hurt, in a way it had never 
done before. 

She had only herself to blame for what she had said to 
Ada Burston. Walter had a right to be angry with her 
about that, she did not care a rap how angry ; she had 
known it was the only way to put an end to the girl’s folly. 
But here he was — far worse than angry — complacent, 
amusing himself with her : half apologising — and this was 
the bitterest insult of all — because he did not feel inclined 
to marry her. 

He always was — always had been like this — the mis- 
take was that she had thought him a little changed; he 
would forget her very existence the moment he ceased to 
need her, found his fingers once more on the serious busi- 
ness of his life. 

He had never asked how she came to be there, how long 
she was going to stay ; would — likely enough — not even 
notice when she went away. 

She had pitied Ada Burston for a fond fool. She had 
done better to have pitied herself. To let Bellamy hurt her 
so after all these years ! But then how he had clung to her, 
called upon her name. 

Forgetting to summon Hansen — for once immersed in 
thoughts of herself — she passed through the vestibule : 
opened the door of one room, and finding Miss Shaw at 
work there, fled, half blinded with tears into the large draw- 
ing-room — where Bellamy gave his more public lectures, 
to a select circle of admirers — threw open a window and 
stood, breathing in the fresh evening air. 

It smelt almost like the country. One star hung in the 
deep blue of the sky; and as yet there were no flashing ad- 
vertisements to put its far-away beauty to shame. 

A tall chimney at the far side of the river was belching 
forth smoke, coaling up: evidently the factory, or foundry 
— whatever it might be — was going to work all night. 

At the sight of the chimney a passionate sense of home- 
sickness swept over Jane. For despite her air of sweet 
serenity — the calm way in which she appeared to take 
everything for granted — she agonised over the luxury of 
Walter’s surroundings. The fine ladies she did not mind, 
they touched him in reality as little as they touched her. But 


BELLAMY 


297 


all the rest, the very feel of those real silk socks, filled her 
with a sense of being shut away: left behind, with all the 
common things of Bellamy’s old life. 

Away in Edge the evening would be grey and pink. The 
narrow streets brooding and friendly. She knew all that 
was happening there. The children playing, the women 
talking at their doors, the men going off to their night shift, 
with the clatter of clogs over the rough homely cobbles — 
here in London there seemed to Jane something furtive in 
the pad of feet on the smooth pavement. 

Oh for the dear workaday world, with its joys and griefs ; 
its nearness to life — to birth and death, to all that was real 
and primal. 

Gale — who, unobserved, was sitting at the writing-table 
in one shadowy corner, and had raised his head as she en- 
tered — watched her for a few moments; then bent over 
his work till it was impossible to see further: caught the 
sound of a stifled sob; waited till the darkness enwrapped 
them both, then spoke. 

“ Jane.” 

“ Who’s yon?” # 

“ It’s I — Francis Gale.” He rose and groped his way 
over to the window; put out one hand meaning to lay it 
upon her shoulder, and touched her smooth neck instead — 
she was so much smaller than one ever thought : — “ Is any- 
thing wrong? Any way I can help you, Jane? ” 

“ No,” for a moment she hesitated ; then added, “ I’m 
goin’ away, back home to-morror, Maester Gale.” 

“ Yes?” 

u Walter ’ull do fine now.” 

“ Oh, Walter ’ull always do fine — trust Walter for that. 
Jane, look here, Jane, if I was a man — anything but what 
I am, the flotsam and jetsam of life — I’d go on my knees 
to ask you to marry me.” 

Jane’s hand went groping out in the darkness. “ That ’ud 
only be mendin’ ill with worse, me lod ; fur Oi dwarn’t love 
thee, an’ thee dwarn’t love me. An’ anyway Oi’m not the 
man-yin’ sort, Oi’m thinkin’ ; thank yer kindly all the same.” 


CHAPTER XLVII 


I T was Jane’s one and only betrayal of feeling during the 
whole of her stay in the “ Adelphi ” flat. She had been 
there three weeks, and had not been out, beyond just 
through the gardens and down to the edge of the river for 
a breath of fresh air — the limit of her London sightseeing. 
For she had come to nurse Bellamy through his illness, for 
no other reason : and now — along with the day nurse — she 
was going away. The need for her at an end — a flat, stale, 
empty end. 

For though she made no more talk of going, in that 
steady, quiet way of hers — which held a pride greater even 
than Walter Bellamy’s vanity — she kept to her determina- 
tion: got Hansen to look her out an afternoon train, be- 
cause there were still things to be done in the morning, 
packed up and strapped the wicker basket. 

Walter was dressed that day. With the suddenness 
which was evident in all that he did, he seemed to have put 
aside his illness; and, almost as alert as ever, was having 
lunch in his own private room — at the same time discussing 
some business with Gale — when Jane came to say good-* 
bye; carrying a letter, which had just arrived by post, and 
which she handed to him. 

“ Wally, Oi’m goin’ along back home ter Edge,” her quiet 
voice gathered a sound of melody on the words “ ter Edge ” 
— “ this afternoon: if there’s any message as you’d be send- 
in’ ter yer mither — ” 

“Eh, what’s that? Oh, just my love, Jane,” — Bellamy 
had torn open the letter and was reading it with flushed 
face. “ Look here, Gale, Sir George Curst’s actually in 
Town ! By Jove I am lucky — He’s coming round at three. 
Hurrah ! ” 

With a boyish gesture he tossed the letter to Gale ; flung 
round in his revolving chair, and catching Jane round the 
waist, raised his face to hers. “ Kiss me, Jane, plain Jane! 
and say you’re glad. You cold little thing ! ” he went on as 

298 


BELLAMY 


299 


she drew back. “ I don’t believe you care. Why it’s the 
chance of my life. I’ll get even with all those fools at Edge 
now. What a good thing I made you write when you did, 
Gale. I felt it in me somehow : felt that it had to be done. 
That shows how one should obey one’s instincts.” 

Suddenly he loosed his hold on Jane and began to walk 
up and down the room; his shoulders squared with all the 
old air of vigour, though his step dragged a little — “ It’s 
a quarter to two now — I’ve got an awful lot to think out. 
And I must have up Hansen and change; these things will 
never do,” he indicated with a laughing gesture, the loose, 
lounge suit that he wore. “ I can’t talk business in togs 
like these — and those letters, Gale, you must leave them 
till later. I must have my time to myself now, think out 
things till a quarter to three — No, twenty to — Tell Han- 
sen to come and dress me then. And now, you good people, 
you clear out, while I formulate my plan of action.” 

“ Oi’d better say good-bye now then, Wally,” put in Jane, 

“ my train goes a’ half-past three; an’ you’ll be busy ” 

Her grey eyes were full on him as she spoke, with the brood- 
ing look of an anxious mother whose offspring is past her 
understanding. 

“ Oh, nonsense ! Say good-bye when Hansen comes to 
change me — if you must go. Ton my soul I don’t know 
why you should go, Jane ; but you always were an obstinate 
little thing. And after all, I suppose it’s better; they’ll be 
wanting you at home,” — with a sudden flame of bitterness 
Jane wondered who the “ they ” might be — “ Give my love 
to my mother, and tell her I’ll run down to Edge some time, 
when I can get a free day.” 

It was not bravado. He had forgotten that last night at 
Edge and the promise he was under; just as he had for- 
gotten his heartsick longing for Jane, during the night and 
day which followed Mrs. Seaton’s dinner-party. 

A few moments after Hansen entered his master’s room 
— punctually at twenty to three — Jane, in her hat and coat 
knocked at the door, and was bidden, in an absent-minded 
voice, to enter. 

Bellamy who was in the middle of the room raised a 
cautionary hand. “ Wait a moment, Jane dear,” he said ; 
then bent his whole attention — swinging to and fro on his 


3oo 


BELLAMY 

heels and toes, frowning and absorbed — upon the two suits, 
which Hansen, standing before him, was holding out for in- 
spection; while the whole bed — that bed beside which Jane 
had sat so long and patiently — was heaped with clothes. 

“ That grey coat — really you don’t understand the im- 
portance of the moment, Hansen; the effect clothes have. 
That’s the fault with all you people who never get any 
further; you don’t realise how immense little things may 
become — how everything matters. Now that grey coat — 
I know there was something wrong with it. I can’t remem- 
ber what. Yes, I like it better than the black, but for all that 
I think I’ll have the black, and those dark trousers. What 
is it, Jane — not going yet, surely? Forsaking me now I’m 
just getting about again! I hope some one’s going to the 

station with you No, Hansen, not those, the ones 

with the stripe — and look here, there’s a note-book in the 
pocket of those things I was wearing. Good-bye, Jane, good 
little Jane: you were a brick to come, good luck to you. 
But look here, you must go now, I’ve got to change my 
pants,” he went on laughing: stretched out a careless hand, 
then turned again to his man. 

It was Gale who got the cab. Gale who carried Jane’s 
basket down the long stone staircase, accompanied her to 
the station, and bought her ticket for her — with an almost 
savage determination to make Bellamy pay for that at least. 

During the long, slow drive — and the wait before the 
train went — it was difficult to find any words: for some- 
how Bellamy seemed to have sapped them, while the sense 
of utter weariness engendered by a railway station was 
upon them; though there were still many things that Gale 
would have liked to have said. Jane had been right when 
she declared that he did not love her, at least not in the way 
that a man should love his wife ; he was past all feeling of 
that sort, nothing could thrill or stir him now. Yet how 
dear she had grown to be — the “ Pocket Nurse ” the “ Min- 
iature Housewife ” as he called her. How he would miss 
the sound of her soft northern burr, her restful matter-of- 
fact ways. 

As for Jane — looking at him while he leant over the 
carnage window — during those last few moments which 
are so difficult to even the most garrulous — her tender 


BELLAMY 


301 


heart was wrung with pity. He looked so tired and hag- 
gard, so obviously in need of some one to look after him. 
And yet all that she could think of to say was: 

“ Wally ’ull do fine now.” 

“Wally! Wally! Wally!” Gale flung round angrily as 
the train moved out of the station. The fellow was a per- 
fect vampire. He would like to go home and tell him what 
he thought of him — take him by the throat and choke the 
greedy life out of him. 

For a moment he hesitated, his hands deep in his pockets ; 
while the crowd pushed and jostled past him. Then he 
moved out of the station, and along the pavement for a few 
yards; looking curiously round him, conscious of an over- 
whelming longing — though for what he scarcely knew. 

After all Bellamy could wait; he supposed he filled a 
place of some sort in the world: Jane was far better off 
without him : without either of them ; for, despite her broad 
speech, there wasn’t a man in the world fit to polish those 
stout little clogs for her. 

Anyhow what was the good of worrying; things never 
happened as one hoped or expected. It was far better to 
just drift with the tide. The flaming letters across a large 
bay window on the opposite side of the road caught his eye. 
After all that was what he wanted — had been looking for. 
He had not tasted brandy since that night when Jane ar- 
rived at the flat; no wonder he felt hipped, hated life, and 
hated Bellamy, who had yet filled a purpose, stood for bread 
and butter — and more. 

All thought of Jane was gone, and he almost ran across 
the street — shouted at by an angry van-man, who drew 
back his horses just in time to escape running over him, 
and dodging a couple of taxis and a motor-’bus by a mere 
hair’s-breadth. 

A frantic sense of haste overpowered him, set him trem- 
bling. From head to foot he felt as though he were empty : 
a mere shell burnt out by a scorching flame which licked 
round and round within him; and he panted as he pushed 
his way — his forehead damp with sweat — through the 
wide swinging doors; then sat down at a small marble- 
topped table and called for brandy, running his tongue 
eagerly along his parched lips. 


CHAPTER XLVIII 


F RANCIS GALE did not appear at the “ Adelphi ” 
flat all next day. But the morning after he slipped 
quietly into his own room — more punctually than 
usual — and changed his clothes. Made no excuse, but was 
suave and courteous ; showing no inclination to find any 
sort of fault with his employer. 

Bellamy found no fault either, apparently had scarcely 
noticed his absence ; while Miss Shaw reported him as hav- 
ing been out nearly the whole of the previous day. 

It was the same all that week. Ladies called by special 
appointment, and he was not there to see them. Excuses 
had to be made on the score of his health, but, as a matter 
of fact, he had never looked better, or seemed more vigor- 
ous. Indeed his illness appeared to have left him reborn to 
a new and freshly resplendent youth, beside which Gale 
faded to a mere shadow, while the two typists grew colour- 
less and worn. 

They all felt that some change was in the air; nothing 
fresh was embarked upon. It seemed to Gale that the 
girls were always whispering together, and the sibilant hiss 
of it got upon his nerves. Yet when he found fault they 
complained, and rightly enough, that there was nothing for 
them to do but talk. 

It was impossible for any of them to gain Bellamy’s at- 
tention. He came and went at all sorts of impossible 
hours ; always in clothes that spoke of the City. And twice 
he was away for a couple of days up in the northern Mid- 
lands: returning with threads of silk — such as had deco- 
rated Jane’s black gown — upon his clothes. But Gale did 
not think that he had seen Jane; while, though he never 
even mentioned Sir George Curst, he believed that it was 
with him that Bellamy’s attention was now engrossed, that 
some important affair hung between the two; for though 
his employer was so communicative regarding the lesser 

302 


BELLAMY 


303 

things of life — his own light amours among them — he was 
capable of complete secrecy as to business affairs. 

Meanwhile the only thing was to keep people in hand as 
much as possible and wait : as they all did — swung to and 
fro by Bellamy’s moods; his exuberant high spirits and his 
silences, which showed more of concentrated thought than 
of depression. 

After all it was not long. For only just a fortnight after 
Jane’s departure Gale entered the flat to find it in a state of 
complete disorder, littered with packing-cases and papers. 

Miss Shaw and Miss Ashton, who were sorting and tear- 
ing up letters, could tell him nothing; excepting that Bel- 
lamy was out when they arrived, had left certain instruc- 
tions for them, and was apparently going away. 

Mrs. Grant, busy packing china, and two warehousemen 

— who were taking down the curtains in the drawing-room 

— added to his scant stock of knowledge by informing him 
that everything was to be sold ; while — when he at last ran 
Hansen to ground in the dressing-room, piled round with 
clothes and new trunks — he was informed that Bellamy’s 
destination was, as far as the man-servant had gathered, 
somewhere in the West Indies. 

“ He comes home to dress for dinner last evening at a 
quarter to eight. An’ tells me as he is off to-day — and 
I can’t not go home — ’ull have to pack all night. An’ so 
I have — all the bloody night.” Hansen wiped his wet brow 
with his shirtsleeve ; too exhausted to be ecclesiastical. “ All 

the savin’ your presence, sir — night. An’ him too — 

after that illness an’ all! Came back at eleven: was at it 
till eight — it ain’t so much the packin’ you see, sir, as the 
sortin’ out — when I got him some breakfast. Then he 
bathed and shaved and was off down to the City. Ordered 
in all these new trunks : things got to be labelled an’ packed 
by eleven! Take me? No, not him. Not one word o’ 
me — except as to what I was to do for ’im — no more than 
if I didn’t exist.” 

Hansen straightened himself, and loosened the limp col- 
lar, which hung like a rag round his neck. “ An’ now 
what’s to become o’ us? That’s what I want to know. 
You’ll not be wantin’ a butler-valet, I suppose, sir? ” There 
was not even the hint of satire in the man’s voice. 


BELLAMY 


304 

Gale gave a harsh laugh. He sometimes wondered what 
there was about him which seemed to give people the idea 
that he was masquerading — his poverty a mere pose. 

“ I expect I’ll be wanting a good deal, my good Hansen, 
but certainly not that. I’m more likely to be looking for 
an odd job man’s place myself, from the look of things.” 

It was the same with them all. Miss Shaw; and Miss 
Ashton; even Mrs. Grant, and the boy who cleaned the 
knives and boots and ran messages — though, as Gale 
thought bitterly enough, he was the best off of all of them, 
for boys were always wanted. What was to become of 
them? Steady, hard-working people — apart from himself 
— who had been unfortunate enough to throw in their lot 
with a flashing comet : nay, a meteor, for there was no say- 
ing when and where Walter Bellamy might reappear. 

It was after ten when he got back — and he had to catch 
the eleven twenty-five train from Victoria — breaking in 
among them, their doubts, their dubious fears, like a sea 
breeze which cares little what it sweeps away in its course. 

He had told Hansen to leave him out a blue serge suit to 
travel in, and as he dressed he talked ; rapping out directions 
to Gale, whom he called to his room. He was giving up 
the flat, had put it in the hands of agents to let for the re- 
mainder of his lease. The furniture and everything except 
his writing-table, and a few more private belongings — 
which Gale must see stored — were to be sold. There was 
nothing for which he felt any sentiment. “ I’m sick of the 
whole thing — the whole fal-daddle as that old beast Hig- 
gins would have said,” — insensibly during the last fortnight 
Bellamy’s voice had broadened a little; the exotic air of 
dreamy refinement and culture was gone. 

“ It’s no good keeping any of these things — I shall never 
be the same person again. They’d never fit me. They’re 
all going up for auction. It was a lark at first — really it 
was a lark, Gale, for all your long face! And I’ve made 
pots of money by it. But I’m sick to death of the whole 
thing — want to get my fingers on realities again for a 
change. You know, I’m going out on some business in 
which I’ve associated myself with Sir George Curst.” For 
the life of him Bellamy could not resist a rolling emphasis 
on the " Sir.” He was tying his tie in front of the mirror 


BELLAMY 


305 

as he spoke, while Hansen wrestled with the straps of the 
last portmanteau. But now he swung round and regarded 
Gale with his hard, bright stare — as if wondering how 
much he knew. t( I’ve done with this sort of tommy-rot 
once and for all. It’s a real good thing that Tve got on to. 
I believe, and Curst believes, we'll pretty well make our 
fortunes, if it turns out as we expect. 

“ I say ! ” suddenly he laughed — he had not brushed his 
hair since he changed his clothes, it was a little longer than 
usual, and there was a hint of the old rampant crest above 
his brows: — “ life's not so bad after all, is it? — To be 
starting off afresh in this fashion ; like the little dicky-birds 
which begin all over again every spring. La joie de vie! 
You cold-blooded fish, Gale. You don’t even know what it 
means.” 

“ There’s Hansen — and the two girls : you’ll have to pay 
them a month’s screw you know, Belle-amie. I’m sorry to 
intrude on your poetical rhapsodies, with anything so sordid, 
but still,” Gale shrugged his shoulders : after all he did not 
know why he interfered. But Bellamy seemed so horribly 
prosperous — he remembered the plea of Reynard the fox, 
that he could not resist eating the lamb because it looked 
so fat and contented, so well pleased with itself — if any 
one ever murdered Walter Bellamy it would not be on ac- 
count of his vices, but of his infinite self-satisfaction: be- 
sides he — Gale — knew something of the life of the aver- 
age girl typist; the difficulty there was in finding employ- 
ment ; and after all why should they suffer ? 

“ I suppose I must.” Bellamy moved over to the bed — 
where the suit he had been wearing still lay — pulled out a 
note-book, pencil and thick wad of bank-notes; and then, 
sitting straddle-legged across a chair, leaning over the back 
of it, began to figure out what he owed. “ Fifteen — 
eighteen — Twenty-three pounds, with your screw, Gale. 
Only a week for you — thirty bob, isn’t it ? I’ve got all the 
rest by the month — worse luck ! ” 

He wet his finger as he spoke — one of the few tricks of 
which he had not been able to cure himself — and fluttered 
over the notes : handed Gale four, for five pounds each, and 
rising, carefully counted out the rest from a little pile of 
gold and silver which he had laid on the table. Then put 


306 BELLAMY 

the remainder in his pocket and rattled it joyfully, squaring 
back his shoulders. 

“ That’s the lot, I think ; I don’t owe a penny, praise the 
Lord! Sent Beecham and Saunders a cheque this morn- 
ing. There ought to be a good deal coming in from all this 
furniture stuff — it cost enough. But what rot having to 
pay all that out in wages, when likely enough they’ll every 
one of them be in fresh billets within the week. Hullo ! it’s 
close on eleven. Go and ring up a taxi, Hansen — better 
have two with all this stuff, and you can come to the sta- 
tion. Where did you put my coat and hat, eh ? ” 

“ It’s here, sir, and about my character ” 

“ Oh, Mr. Gale will see to that. Write them all charac- 
ters, will you, Gale, as flaming as you like,” Bellamy was 
brushing his hair as he spoke; frowning over the parting. 

“ Oh, and see about the telephone being taken away, and 
gas cut off, will you?” 

“ Anything else ? ” Gale asked the question in a flat 
even voice. But something in the tone of it caused the other 
man to fling round upon him staring. 

“ What the devil’s the matter? You look pretty hipped. 
Nothing to worry about, you know : I’ll come back all 
right.” 

" I confess I don’t feel torn with any special anxiety on 
that score.” 

“Well, then, what the Oh, by the by, there’s the 

address for my letters to be forwarded to ; take it round to 
the post office, will you ? ” 

“ Anything else ? ” 

“Anything else! — Well, aren’t I paying you a week’s 
screw? That reminds me you’ll find a cheque folded with 
a bill in the drawer of my writing-table. Fifteen pounds for 
these dwarf Japanese trees! Did you ever hear of such a 
price? And tell the fellow he’s a humbug; they’ve started 
growing.” 

“ Brothers ! ” murmured Gale. 

“ Eh, what’s that ? La ! what a face. I suppose you 
think you’re terribly hardly used.” 

“ My dear Belle-amie, I think nothing, except that you’re 
truer to type than any man or beast I ever met. That re- 
minds me — though why I don’t know ” Gale spoke 


BELLAMY 


307 


smoothly, his head a little bent ; but his deep-set eyes, sud- 
denly keen and watchful, were full on the other man’s face. 
“ What about your mother and — and Miss Irwin ? ” 

“ Jane — my pretty plain Jane ? M on Dieu, I’d clean for- 
gotten ! ” Bellamy had been giving his nails a last polish ; 
but now he slipped the little pad into his waistcoat pocket 
and pulled out his note-book. “ Better send her something 
— I suppose she had a lot of expense coming up here, when 
I was seedy, and all that.” 

He was flicking over his notes as he spoke : passed by sev- 
eral for ten pounds, found one for five and held it out to 
Gale. “ Send her that, will you ? Tell her it’s for her and 
my mother to get some new frocks with: give them my 
love.” 

But Gale making no attempt to take the note, had moved 
back a step with his hands behind his back. 

For a moment Bellamy stared, puzzled by something in 
the other man’s expression. “ You know the address, don’t 
you ? ” 

“Yes, I know the address!” 

“ Well, take it, will you? Here’s Hansen coming up with 
the men for my traps — catch ! ” Bellamy flipped the note 
across to Gale as he spoke, took up his light overcoat and 

began to put it on. “ Oh, and look here, Gale ” he 

stopped with a stare and a shrug: inserted his other arm. 
into the sleeve of his coat ; then, stooping,, picked up the note 
which had fallen between them and put it in his pocket. 

For without a single word Gale had flung round upon his 
heel and walked out of the room. 

In a book on manners and etiquette which Bellamy had 
once studied, the reader was instructed never to. fully turn 
his back on leaving a room : to stand somewhat sideways at 
the door when opening it : to close it gently behind him. 

It was quite evident that Francis Gale never had the ad- 
vantage of perusing this priceless volume., for his behaviour 
was diametrically opposed to all. these instructions. 

But his employer remembered it and laughed. 

“ Poor old Gale, what a state his nerves must . be in. 
That was what comes of letting oneself go: not taking the 
trouble to keep fit : losing all one’s self-respect.” 


CHAPTER XLIX 


S IX months later Walter Bellamy came back to Eng- 
land: stayed one night in London, interviewed in- 
numerable people — with whom he had got in touch 
during the last week or so after his illness — then went 
straight away up to Wantage. 

Here he stayed — save for a few flying visits to the Con- 
tinent and several odd days in Town — as completely lost 
to all his old associates as though he were still abroad. 

He was feeling intensely alive, the languid shams of the 
last few years were shed : and he snuffed the smell of fac- 
tory smoke like a battle horse, while the hum of machinery 
was sweet to his ears. Arms and hands were tingling with 
life. It was as if he actually felt the innumerable threads 
of the great new business — all alive with electricity — be- 
tween his fingers. Every pretence of sentiment was swept 
away. To work, and make other people work, to start a 
great web spinning, which would throw out its threads across 
the entire world — that was all he thought of. 

Already, before he returned — on receipt of some of his 
later letters, and certain small mysterious samples — Sir 
George Curst had taken over an empty factory, which stood 
on the borders of the town. By the time Bellamy got" back 
all the necessary building alterations were finished. And 
now the huge, empty carcass was being fitted with what 
seemed like life; with brains and nerves, with lungs fash- 
ioned to breathe out endless volumes of blackened smoke; 
and digestive organs and teeth, sufficient to grind, and tear 
and masticate the faintly tinted, greenish white contents of, 
the great bales, which — sewn up in sacking like wool packs 
— were almost daily being brought to its doors. 

Over the contents of these bales, a French scientist — to 
whom Sir George Curst had first shown Bellamy’s samples, 
and who was now established in a laboratory close against 

308 


BELLAMY 


3°9 

the factory — pored ceaselessly ; while the German mechan- 
ics, whom Walter had imported — with the help of Von- 
berg, whom he had somehow managed to unearth, for he 
never quite lost sight of any one who might be of use to 
him — handled it doubtfully ; discussing it endlessly in their 
own tongue; and, at last — setting up the marvellously in- 
tricate machines, which they had brought over with them — 
testing it : first in unbelief, then in wonder over the capabili- 
ties of the new material. 

As to the English workmen, they merely regarded it as 
something new, carrying with it the possibilities of constant 
work and fair wages. But they made no effort to work up 
the different processes. To them it was like a picture puz- 
zle, with each piece put away in a room by itself: leaving 
the whole a blank to all but the specially initiated. 

For close on a year this went on. Then the silk world 
began to be stirred by the breath of a new idea. It reached 
the Continent first — but that was no matter, for the patents 
had already been secured — rthen made its way — as some- 
thing not yet understood and therefore scarcely to be be- 
lieved in — back to England. 

For a while it was all vague, more in the air than in ac- 
tual words. But gradually — from being something which 
every one had heard of and no one knew anything of — it 
began to take a tangible shape. 

Still this was all it amounted to. Some cranks — we 
continually forget how many cranks of to-day are the 
geniuses of to-morrow — had got an idea of replacing the 
wood pulp, used in the making of artificial silk, with aloe 
fibre. 

The thing had been thought of before. Anyhow rope 
and a rough sort of sacking had been made of the same 
material; while some one had actually achieved a stiff, un- 
sympathetic kind of tissue from the fibre of pine apple 
leaves. The world was full of asses of the sort that had 
attempted to “ distil sunbeams out of cucumbers/ 1 It would 
never come to anything — or so people said. 

Then — six months after the first rumour got abroad : 
with that amazing suddenness with which anything that has 
hung long in hearsay really comes to pass — the new silk 
flowed out upon the market: flooded the mills with waves 


BELLAMY 


310 

of brilliance, rippled over to the Continent and swept back 
upon a high tidal wave to the country of its birth. 

Sewing silks, twists, hanks, skeins. Silk for broad weav- 
ing — for braids, fringes, ribands, brocades : no more sim- 
ple knitted goods, as with the old artificial stuff. 

Silk as strong, and smooth and fine as the “ hard silk.” 
Silk that you could rub between a damp finger and thumb 
— supreme test — without injuring: wash without shrink- 
ing or diminishing the lustre. Silk that would take any 
die. That could be warped into such smooth, unbreakable 
lengths that the weavers’ output was doubled. 

It was a lark! That was Walter Bellamy’s feeling. 

The glittering web spread and spread. He visualised 
himself as a spider, sitting in the midst of it, exuding silk, 
or running to and fro flinging fresh strands to the uttermost 
parts of the earth. 

Then, with a sudden turn of fancy, he saw the great, com- 
mercial world conglomerated into something like an im- 
mense sea anemone : dilating and contracting ; breathing out 
incredulity; breathing in belief: throwing forth tendrils in 
all directions to catch at anything new; yet still firm stuck 
to the rock where it had always been. 

With a clear remembrance of the old labour troubles in 
Edge Bellamy sought out Burton and claimed an old ac- 
quaintanceship ; told him something of the affair — quite 
enough — and insisted that all the men and women em- 
ployed in the new industry should wear the Union Badge. 

At first George — who was a narrow Liberal of the 
new school — rebelled at this. But gradually he began to 
realise that the younger man was right: had made a friend 
of a possible foe. Besides if they did come to loggerheads 
with any of their workers it was easier — as some of our 
newer colonies have already realised — to arrive at terms 
with an organisation, boasting a brain at the back of it, than 
with an infinite series of bigotted, and often ignorant men 
and women. 

Bellamy’s energy was unquenchable. Having started the 
mechanism of the business going he set his brain to work 
on the weakest place. 

The supply of fibre threatened to be unreliable; not on 
account of any scarcity, but simply because they were deal- 


BELLAMY 


3ii 


jng with a people whom it was impossible to bind down by 
business methods, inculcate with the necessity for punctu- 
ality and who — in addition to this — were held back by the 
fear that another nation might be making money which 
ought, by rights, to be theirs. 

With this difficulty, as with so many, came a broadening 
of the young man’s ambition. A stream which has been 
dammed may divide and run two ways with advantage, and 
Bellamy caught the idea of advertising the stuff as being 
entirely grown by English subjects, while at the same time 
regulating the supply and obtaining it at a cheaper rate. 

The thing was to find the aloe growing in some place 
where, under British Dominion, the conditions were, as 
nearly as possible, allied to slavery. 

After some study of the subject — largely vicarious, for 
he had learnt the art of making other people work for him — 
Bellamy lighted on Mauritius, with its cheap indented la- 
bour ; and discovered that there had already been some en- 
deavour made to exploit the aloe, which flourished exceed- 
ingly on every piece of waste ground or mountain-side. 
Then picking out — between finger and thumb, as it were 
— from among his business acquaintance and creatures, the 
one man who knew tropical life and understood such things, 
a broken down, exceedingly intelligent, dissolute and 
drunken sugar planter, sent him out to reconnoitre. 

A few months later — the report being favourable — he 
despatched one of Curst’s most reliable juniors to manage 
the business affairs, to take over a disused sugar mill which 
was for sale, to adapt — as far as was practicable — any 
of the old aloe shredding plant ; and to use the first man, his 
knowledge of the life, work and conditions, to the best pos- 
sible advantage: keeping him as sober as was necessary, 
and seeing to it that he used his knowledge for no private 
ends. 

Needless to say, the two men hated each other, watched 
each other incessantly, and worked against each other, as 
Bellamy had known they would do. Indeed the whole thing 
succeeded, even beyond his most sanguine . hopes ; while 
Mauritius — a cane-growing colony, languishing in its fight 
against beet sugar — was only too ready to welcome any 
new source of wealth with open arms. 


312 


BELLAMY 


The word “ Empire ” loomed largely in Walter’s vocabu- 
lary — biasing through his mind like the flashing advertise- 
ment for Dewar’s Whisky, which he had once seen from his 
“ Adelphi ” window — and he interviewed members of the 
Cabinet, the Minister for Agriculture, the Colonial Secre- 
tary ; while at the same time, a continuous stream of fibre — 
neatly sewn in palm-leaf bags instead of sacking — flowed 
smoothly and regularly in at the mill doors of Messrs. Curst 
and Bellamy. 

For that was what it had come to. They were a well- 
balanced pair of partners; for Sir George Curst had the 
money, the business reputation, the solidarity : while to Bel- 
lamy was the high daring, the intuition, the power of pro- 
jecting his mind forward; of not only seeing actualities but 
possibilities ; the rashness of the right moment. 

After a while he was seldom enough at Wantage, but 
lived in Town; attending to the London and Continental 
affairs of what, after all, was his “ Great Idea ” or — to put 
it more precisely — his adaptation of an idea which had 
been conceived years before by a half-caste Spaniard — 
father of that first fine mistress of his — who had caught at 
it when he himself was a young man, drinking to its health 
so often that it became a mere wavering image — unduly 
inflated during his hours of intoxication, and mourned, dur- 
ing the intervening days of depression, as the one chance 
of his life: a chance which — and it was “just like my 
luck ” — he had never had the opportunity to exploit. 

With his usual faculty for killing two birds with one 
stone Bellamy had absorbed it all — during the long scented 
evenings in the verandah, while the girl was lying against 
his breast, or crouched at his knees ; realising alike his pres- 
ent satisfaction, and the possibilities of a great business 
success. 

He had forgotten the girl long long ago. But the confi- 
dence which had been babbled into his ear — at one moment 
as a bribe to matrimony, at another as the irresistible out- 
pouring of a drunken man — still remained. 

And now the outcome of it all — housewives say that if 
you keep anything for seven years it will come in handy — 
was “ Curst and Bellamy ” the coupled names of almost 
world-wide fame. 


BELLAMY 


313 

Another year and no single weak spot remained in the 
industry. Every part of the vast mechanism worked 
smoothly and in order. There was scarcely a town which 
was unfamiliar with the green and gold labels ; the packing- 
cases, the crates, the irreproachable green vans with the in- 
signia of the firm in flowing gold letters across either side 

— the Trade Mark, a thick tress of silk twisted into a Staf- 
fordshire knot; superposed by a scroll bearing the legend: 
“ In Truth is Strength.” 

Walter Bellamy had been right in saying he would never 
again fit into his rooms in the “ Adelphi.” He could as soon 
have fitted the little general dealer’s shop at the top of the 
Edge cattle market ; perhaps sooner, for circles meet, and he 
was certainly at his furthest from the “Adelphi” days: 
the loose grey suit ; the white silk shirts and purple ties, the 
slight stoop, which he had, with some difficulty encouraged 

— the whole Dionysian pose. 

His very figure changed. He was still very careful to 
keep fit. But he did it with a Sandow exerciser in his own 
room: he was strong and muscular, but he had shed his 
joyous, half wild alertness. 

In these days he no longer flung himself from a carriage: 
he stepped out. He didn’t lean forward when he was talk- 
ing, his hands loosely clasped between his knees, his head 
a little bent, his ardent eyes upraised. He leant back in his 
chair, and regarded his companion with a cool level glance, 
his hands tip to tip upon his crossed knees, in front of his 
slightly solidified person. No one could say that he was 
growing fat, even putting on flesh : but there was a firmness. 
Formerly he had been a curious compound of blood and 
air; but now prosperity enveloped, thickened him. 

At the best he had only pretended to be completely of 
the spirit — but it had given him a flair. Now nobody could 
tell, himself least of all — Jane might have known, but he 
never saw Jane now, he was so often near to her that any 
time would do — how much of him was really business 
man. But it is certain that the phase had gone deep. 

It had always been a pleasure to dress Bellamy, but it 
had been a question of tint and flow ; now it was all line and 
fit — as Beecham and Saunders realised. 

Hansen, however, the only one of the old party, whom 


3H 


BELLAMY 


Bellamy had hunted up — simply because it seemed stupid 
to let there be two people in the world who knew as much 
of him as his own man-servant, when one would suffice — 
diagnosed the difference as much the same as that between 
a young girl and a married woman, which was clever of 
him. For the change was subtle; showing, not only in the 
man himself, but in his surroundings; the dignified flat in 
Cavendish Square, the style of the dining-room suite, the 
influential cook in the background. 

In three years’ time Walter Bellamy knew every one; 
went where he pleased. He was so very rich that it did not 
matter who he had been: he could even afford to talk of 
poverty ; there was no need to pretend anything — and here 
was the fly in the amber, for life shorn of its “ play acting ” 
was shorn of half its joy. 

He dropped Mrs. Seaton, whom he referred to as “ that 
woman.” Hetty d’Esterre had become impossible; coars- 
ened, grown promiscuous in her loves. He was very par- 
ticular about women in these days — he knew so much about 
them. They must be very exquisite and very pure and 
very well born. The idea of marriage, a house instead of a 
flat, occurred to him. Then Curst had no child and a son 
was needed to perpetuate “ The Firm.” 


CHAPTER L 


S EVERAL times — after seating himself at the top 
rung of the particular ladder up which he had climbed 
— Bellamy met Lady Constance Sartoris, the dove- 
like debutante whom he had taken in to dinner that night 
at Mrs. Seaton’s. She was now twenty-two: the smoothest 
person he had ever seen, in her fair hair, her fresh skin, her 
manners, her voice, her movements. To Walter Bellamy’s 
mechanical mind she seemed “ to run ” to perfection, with 
no possibility of getting out of gear. Besides, her hands 
were adorable, slender, white and tapered. No amount of 
manicuring could re-make Walter’s hands to his satisfaction, 
and he was determined that the “ Son ” — the first fresh 
young sprig of a regenerated tree — should have nothing to 
complain of in this matter. 

He thought about it for some time ; he was a solid person 
now and his mind worked more slowly. Then he delib- 
erately put himself in the way of seeing more of Lady 
Constance: proposed and — after a little maidenly hesita- 
tion — was accepted. 

The engagement left him quite untouched. He had 
feared a feeling of restraint; but, as a matter of fact, it 
gave him no feeling of any sort whatever. 

He kissed Lady Constance’s smooth cheek, and slim white 
fingers, with much the sort of pleasure that a child feels in 
stroking a seal-skin coat. Admired her pretty little blush 
— always so exactly in the right place; bought her a dia- 
mond ring, ordered flowers to be sent every day, booked 
himself to dine with her once during each week, and de- 
termined to try and keep another afternoon free to take 
her out to tea or to see pictures. And then — having regu- 
lated all the preliminaries for the marriage — which was not 
to take place till the early autumn — for the Templetons 
were poor, and Lady Templeton had her eye upon the sum- 


BELLAMY 


316 

mer sales as a help towards the trousseau — immersed him- 
self once more in his business. For Curst and Bellamy’s, 
though it was still to stand under the same name, had be- 
come too big to handle, and was being converted into a com- 
pany: a change which involved an enormous amount of 
work. 

Besides, Hansen could always be relied upon to remind 
him when he was to dine with his betrothed, was even trusted 
with the task of remembering her birthday. 

Life had become as smooth as though it ran upon pneu- 
matic tyres. Occasionally a feeling came over Walter Bel- 
lamy that he was like a well-padded chair, which his in- 
evitable good luck was pushing about upon carefully oiled 
casters. But really he had no qualms or cares beyond the 
fear of putting on flesh. For youth was dormant in him. 

There are times like this. They come at intervals be- 
tween the ages of ten and a hundred. As time goes on they 
lengthen : but they are never to be counted on as quite gone. 
For youth — indomitable, eager, questioning and desirous 
— springs eternal. And there lies all the tragedy of old 
age; of heartbreaking Springs, when all else in Nature is 
reviving, beautifying itself afresh. 

It was the first week in March when Walter Bellamy 
made his proposal. During the whole of March and April 
there was nothing in the outer world to exhilarate any one. 
It was cold, misty and raining. Grudging weather with 
that hint of yellowness in the air which is so characteristic 
of London ; finding its reflex in the bilious outlook of many 
of its inhabitants. 

The Templetons were down in the country for a month 
at Easter, and twice — from Saturday to Monday — Wal- 
ter joined them: realising for the first time all the horrors 
of a well-ordered county life, when the exact time for 
everything — even to the boiling of an egg — is a matter 
of tradition. 

Here he was introduced to innumerable future relatives, 
and kissed Lady Constance, and squeezed her hand when 
they were alone — as often as he remembered. For still 
spring had scarcely touched the trees, and even the boles 
of the elms were unbroken by green. 

Then the Templetons returned to Town. And suddenly 


BELLAMY 


317 

spring leapt into life: with warm, wanton winds, sunshine 
and flowers, and the singing of birds. 

Walter went, dutifully, to dine with his betrothed and her 
family ; and it was actually warm enough — though only the 
first week of May — to go into the balcony after dinner. 

Was it the spring in his veins? Or that he wore a but- 
tonhole of lilies of the valley, with their exotic scent which 
went to his head like wine ? Or was it that the business of 
the Company had been satisfactorily arranged, that he stood 
balanced on the top of his ladder : incredibly prosperous : 
certainly putting on a little, a very little flesh, but all quite 
in the right place — like Lady Constance's blush — looking 
round to see where he should jump to next? 

It is difficult to say. But suddenly the old Walter Bon- 
net Bellamy rose, and rent the husk of the prosperous City 
man. 

As a drowning man sees his whole past life before him, 
so Bellamy saw love, and its exponents as he had known 
them. The warm-lipped, full-blooded ardour of that half 
Spanish woman ; the infinite allure of a little French girl 
he had once been intimate with; the rough, half maternal 
passion of some of the mill girls ; Hetty d’Esterre, with her 
gay delight in all the gay rituals of life. 

A hot pain burnt up the back of his neck, some small 
vein in his cheek throbbed, his eyes felt as though there was 
sand in them. 

At that moment all his needs were elemental. He wanted 
a woman in his arms — to seize her and shake her; bruise 
her with his rough embraces. He wanted the wind and the 
wild open moors ; to run and shout and to feel his strength. 

Scarcely knowing what he did he put out both hands, 
caught his betrothed's head between them, and ruffled up 
her smooth hair : then, half angrily — feeling that he would 
as soon have boxed her ears — kissed her lips, drawing them 
to his harshly, cruelly. 

“ Let's be married to-morrow — no, to-night — A mid- 
night wedding ! Let’s run away ! ” he said with that rather 
shrill high laugh which betokened intense excitement. Then 
caught her to him and held her close. 

“ Let's do anything wild, and mad and bad — the spring's 
got into my veins. Con, Con ! what a lark it is to be young 


318 BELLAMY, 

and full of life — what a gorgeous lark! Think of it; just 
you and I, and nobody else to matter a tinker’s damn in 
the whole world.” 

“ Walter — you hurt me — Walter I — I — you’ll bruise 
my arms — and mind my hair. Oh, Walter, let me go.” 

“ I won’t let you go. I’ve got you and I mean to keep 
you. So don’t flutter your plumage like that, you poor 
little scared dove.” A sudden note of contempt was in his 
voice. 

“ Really, really you hurt. Oh, Walter, let me go. You 

frighten me — I — I ” The girl’s face was white, as 

she pushed away from him, her lips trembling, her eyes full 
of tears ; while somehow her roughened hair made her look 
ridiculous — like some one in another person’s hat. 

“ You don’t love me. You wouldn’t even know that I 
hurt you if you loved me,” Bellamy’s voice was aggrieved. 
He had never asked for love ; but still it ought to have been 
there. 

“ You wouldn’t treat me like that if you loved me,” 
flamed Lady Constance with sudden spirit; for during the 
ebb of Walter’s passion she had contrived to wrench her- 
self free, and stood close against the lintel of the drawing- 
room window — could actually hear her mother and aunt 
discussing the delinquencies of the kitchen-maid. “ Men 
have more respect for the girls they really love.” 

“ Respect ! — They respect their grandmothers ! ” Wal- 
ter Bellamy laughed rudely. “ There’s no room for respect 
where a man and woman are all in all to each other.” 

“ But they do ; I know they do. Mamma says ” — Lady 
Constance’s voice broke in a sob — “ You’ve behaved per- 
fectly horribly — you’ve frightened me out of my wits. If 
you come near me again I shall go indoors.” She was still 
trembling, but with a sensation of not unpleasant excite- 
ment; there was even a meagre trace of challenge in her 
voice. “To kiss me like — like that.” 

w Like what?” 

“ Oh, you know — on my mouth. Mamma says ” 

“ Mamma ! Mamma ! Mamma belongs to the Victorians 
who mistake sentiment for passion: the Lord only knows 

how they ever propagated their species. And you 

Constance, have you got any warm blood in your veins ? ” 


BELLAMY 


319 

“ You’re horrid, disgusting to-night. How can you talk 
like that. I never thought ” 

“ Nor felt either ! Do you know what love is ? It’s 
brutal and cruel and wild. It sweeps away everything else 
in life. There’s nothing worth having apart from it.” Wal- 
ter Bellamy’s voice swung in its old rhythm. He had shed 
the decorous business man, the finger-kissing suitor ; was his 
old flamboyant self once more. “ They paint love as a little 
boy with toy wings — he’s a giant with pinions which 
stretch from heaven to earth. There’s no bargaining with 
him, giving a little, holding back a little, it must be all or 
nothing. Constance, if you won’t come away with me to- 
night — think what a lark it would be, to climb down the 
balcony here, and run off and be married ! — Or not mar- 
ried.” 

“ Walter!” 

‘‘Well, at a registry office — that’s what I call splitting 
the difference. If you won’t do that I’ll not believe you 
love me.” Bellamy gave his head a little jerk as he spoke, 
with all the air of an obstinate spoilt child. He felt that 
he was playing Lady Constance as though she were a fish; 
and for the first time for months was really enjoying him- 
self. The daughter of an Earl — no longer sweetly smooth, 
but agitated; trembling yet fascinated — as surely as that 
silly little rabbit Ada Burston had been — and he, Walter 
Bellamy, who had run barefooted — hawking papers 
through the streets of Edge. 

“I couldn’t — I ” 

“Well then next week,” persisted Bellamy; while — 
“ take me or leave me ” tittered the sub-goblin at the back 
of him. 

“ You know I can’t, you know ” Lady Constance 

almost wrung her hands. “ Nothing’s settled. We should 
get no presents — with the season coming on and all. Then 
there’s my trousseau.” 

“ Oh, very well ! If the trousseau is more important 
than the bridegroom.” A sudden sense of almost unendur- 
able boredom descended upon Bellamy. Here was the place 
to end the whole wearisome affair: And with a melodra- 
matic shrug he swung round and entered the drawing- 
room, where Lady Templeton and her sister — who had 


BELLAMY 


320 

caught the sound of distress in Lady Constance’s voice—- 
had risen to their feet, staring with open mouth. For in 
the best circles a man seldom makes a woman cry before 
marriage. 

“Lady Templeton, may I ask — in my ignorance — how 
much a young lady’s complete — really complete trousseau is 
likely to cost ? ” enquired Bellamy ; his bland air oddly at 
variance with his expression, that Pan-like expression of 
malice and delight. 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” the good lady spoke confusedly, 
bewildered by something in Bellamy’s manner, which put 
him quite apart from the man she thought she knew: — 
“ Anything from twenty up to a thousand pounds, it all de- 
pends. My housemaid who is engaged to the ” 

“ Still you think a thousand pounds would be a fair 
price?” interrupted Walter suavely. 

“ I suppose so — I ” she began ; then laughed con- 

strainedly — “ But what a very odd question. Why do you 
ask?” 

“ Because, if you’ll allow me, I will send you a cheque for 
that amount, to-morrow. Your daughter and I have been 
having a little dispute as to relative values — she has made 
her choice. And ” — with a sudden delightful sense of hold- 
ing the floor, of amazing the two stout, conventional women, 
and the trembling girl at the window, as they had never 
been amazed before — Bellamy dropped into his most busi- 
ness-like tone — “ And for the other goods, as per invoice — 
I will not trouble you further. The matrimonial bargain 
being” — here he gave a shrug, and quick gesture of the 
hands — “ so to say — off.” 

“ Lord Templeton is in the smoking-room with my son — 

Lord Templeton ” began his hostess, drawing herself 

up, very flushed : realising, as she afterwards declared, that 
there was something unendurably insolent in “ that wretched 
man’s manner : ” — For Bellamy, with his head a little on 
one side, was staring at her as though she was some strange 
and interesting animal — “ If you will explain to Lord Tem- 
pleton — Constance, my child ! ” 

Her glance turned to the window — where her daughter 
was standing with tear-stained face — almost as if she were 
appealing for help to the well-drilled nonentity, whom she 


BELLAMY 


321 

had trained never to think for herself : — “ Constance, Con- 
stance darling — what is it ? ” 

“ I don’t know, Mamma. Walter was very strange — he 
frightened me—-* I — I But really it was nothing.” 

“ The truth is this,” Bellamy bent forward, suddenly 
sombre; for — despite the fact that his sub-self applauded 
the whole scene with ribald delight — he really had a dis- 
tinct sense of ill-usage : after all what right had his affianced 
wife to bore him? “ I find that I am not loved for myself. 
To speak quite plainly Lady Constance’s affections are en- 
gaged elsewhere.” 

“ Indeed, Mr. Bellamy ; I’m sure that there is — never 
has been any one,” remonstrated Lady Templeton. “ Con- 
stance was always so reserved — Constance ! ” again that 
almost appealing glance; but her daughter’s eyes, tear- 
drenched and deprecating, were fixed on Walter Bellamy’s 
face. 

“ No,” he answered gloomily, “ it is no use ; she doesn’t 
love me, and ” — Suddenly the sub-self gained the upper 
hand and Bellamy laughed, not insolently but with the air of 
having found out something amazingly funny — “And I’ll* 
be hanged if I love her. So what’s the good of marrying — 
eh?” 

There was something persuasive in his smile as he 
glanced round at the three women, before adding — with 
a sense of delicious irony : — “ For what does any one ever 
marry for excepting love? Love which ‘rules the camp, 

the court, the grove ’ The truth is that Lady Constance 

visualises Cupid as a porter, avec une corbeille on his back, 

hiding his wings. Whereas I But I will not bore 

you by recounting the ideals of a common man,” Bellamy 
added — with a species of brag that the climber only allows 
himself when he is very sure of his firm foothold — then 
glanced once more at the girl: sighed — very passably, for 
he was an excellent actor — smiled: included all three in a 
sweeping bow, and left the room ; without even giving Lady 
Templeton time to ring for the butler to let him out. 

“Odious creature!” ejaculated Miss Carstairs; “I al- 
ways knew it, Harriet. The fellow is a cad — a cad ! — I 
told you how it would be. It isn’t as though his wealth 
was anything out of the way ! ” 


322 


BELLAMY 


“ But still, with three girls not out, one's got to put up 
with something,” lamented her sister. “ There’s Dora, who 
must be presented this season. You should have had more 
sense, Constance,” she added pettishly. “To quarrel like 
that — to cry! You look a perfect sight; nothing puts a 
man off like tears.” 

“ But — but I loved him,” sobbed poor Lady Constance ; 
as though that were a sufficient reason for any folly. 


CHAPTER LI 


A S for Bellamy, on leaving the Templetons’ house he 
hesitated a moment or two. Then, determining to 
walk home, crossed the road, moved up it and turned 
into the Green Park. 

How was it he had ever admired Lady Constance’s 
smooth perfection? He was in a mood where — if it had 
not all been so deliciously funny — he would like to have 
defaced her: picked her up and thrown her against a wall, 
as a savage will do with an idol which has exasperated him 
by its calmness. 

After all what did he want with marriage? What did he 
want with a son? Now that the business was going to be 
turned into a company, with a registered name, there was 
no need for that. 

The solemn humbug of those Templetons! 

He threw back his head and laughed. He had behaved 
like a brute, a cad — but all of a sudden he realised that was 
how he wanted to behave. He wanted life without veneer 
— crude, rough, naked — he wanted to wear gaudy ties, to 
eat with his knife — with no servant behind his chair to criti- 
cise him. To kiss or curse as he felt inclined : after all that 
was the life which suited him best. 

With people like the Templetons life, one’s whole ex- 
istence, was “ faced,” like early Victorian furniture. A 
pretentious farce, running neither to tragedy nor comedy. 

A few dark forms were huddled up on the seats as he 
passed them. To sleep where and when and how you like, 
with the sky for a canopy ; who else had so free a life as these 
derelicts, stripped of all responsibility, beyond the thought 
of the next meal? 

This reflection brought a sudden memory of Gale. He 
had agonised over just such a life. But things would bite 
to Gale’s bone which — -as Bellamy realised — he himself 
would pass by unnoticed, regard as a part of everyday life. 

323 


BELLAMY 


324 

What had become of Gale during the last few years? He 
felt that he must see him ; that he was the only man to suit 
his mood. 

Moving beneath a lamp, which stood at the centre of 
four cross paths, he pulled out his watch and glanced at it. 
It was only a little past ten. Night or day was always 
much the same to Francis Gale ; why not go now ? His mind 
was made up. He must find him and that at once. His 
need for his long-forgotten friend had, on a sudden, become 
as imperative as though it were a matter of life or death. 
The only thing was — in which direction had he better start 
on his quest ; and for another moment or so he stood hesi- # 
tating: deep in thought. 

A miserable wisp of male humanity, hovering near, 
glanced greedily at the well-groomed young man, who stood 
with his overcoat thrown open, displaying one pearl stud, 
and an expanse of white shirt front ; the gold watch still in 
his hands. 

For a moment he hesitated: then stretched out a grimy 
claw. “ A copper, guv’nor, ter get a bed — out o’ work for 
months — wife an’ kids starvin’ ” 

“ You’d drink it.” 

“ Not I, governor, I ain’t ” began the man. Then — 

as his red-rimmed eyes met Walter’s, beneath the yellow 
flare of lamplight — all at once he dropped his whine. 
“ Well, what am I to do? A cove’s a cove for all ’ees in 
rags. An’ there’s you gents with yer champagne suppers 
an’ yer fancy lydies.” 

With a laugh Walter Bellamy dropped a sovereign into 
the narrow palm, with its tangled bunch of claw-like fingers. 

“ Go and get drunk — gloriously drunk — drunker than 
you’ve ever been before,” he said. And then with a sudden 
decision turned away at right angles to the direction in which 
he had been going. And so into Piccadilly, where he hailed 
a taxi. 

He would go home first and ask Hansen where Gale was 
to be found; likely enough Hansen would know, for he 
had always, somehow, seemed to regard the derelict as his 
legitimate master. 

But Hansen knew nothing for certain. He was slow and 
sleepy. Mr. Gale had been in Grove Buildings, in Roches- 


BELLAMY 


325 

ter Row, a year back. After Mr. Bellamy left he had 
moved a great many times. It was a wonder to him — 
Hansen — how he lived, a real gentleman too ! 

Likely enough he was dead; he had gone away to noth- 
ing last time he saw him. By the by, some one had told 
him of some new address — it might have been Mrs. Grant 
— but he was not certain : had no idea where she had said 
the place was. 

Bellamy could have stamped with impatience. As Jane 
had said years before, if Wally did not want a thing it 
ceased to exist to him; if he wanted it he must have it at 
once. 

And now he wanted Gale. 

The tears actually came into his eyes. After all Gale was 
the only man friend he had ever had since he climbed out 
of his own sphere — he and Sir George Curst were merely 
business associates each with a good deal of contempt for 
the other — and now Gale had vanished : forsaken him. 

It was no good questioning Hansen further. Besides, 
the taxi was still ticking away outside the door, and though 
he had more money than he knew what to do with, and had 
just given a sovereign to a beggar, the thought of those 
twopences bit into Bellamy: he would go to Gale’s last ad- 
dress, places of the sort in which he lived were, for the 
most part, open night and day. And bidding his servant go 
to bed, he went downstairs again, and told the waiting 
taxi-driver to take him to Westminster. 

An all night sitting had been predicted for the House, 
and he thought that the driver might take him for a Mem- 
ber. Well — after all there were more impossible things! 
A rumour of dissolution was in the air ; if he chose to stand 
for Wantage he was pretty sure of a seat. 

But he did not choose — and never would. He was 
seized with a sudden aversion to all that was smug and re- 
spectable. Not that it seemed necessary to be either to sit 
in Parliament; but the pose suited with the position, the 
place: and he hated anything that was out of focus. 

Dismissing his cab at the end of Parliament Street, he 
crossed the Square, passed the front of the Abbey and 
turned into Great Smith Street. Hunted out Gale’s latest 
address and found him gone : was directed first to one place 


BELLAMY 


326 

and then another — each as it seemed a step further down 
in the abyss which lies beneath London’s social and com- 
mercial life. And finally, towards one o’clock, made his 
way back to his own flat, more convinced than ever of the 
value of Gale to him at that special moment; more deter- 
mined that he should be, must be, found. 


CHAPTER LII 


D IRECTLY he had finished breakfast the next morn- 
ing — with that strange persistence which distin- 
guished him in all on which he had set his heart — 
or rather fancy — Walter Bellamy started out again on his 
search armed with Mrs. Grant’s address. 

The taxi-driver took him down to the river and along the 
Embankment, to avoid the traffic in Victoria. Nearing his 
old lodgings, the idea of questioning Mrs. Burston occurred 
to Bellamy, and putting his head out of the window, he told 
the driver to stop opposite the ship-breaking yard, then got 
out and rang at the bell. 

Mrs. Burston herself opened it; her fresh, full face had 
fallen into sallow bags, her eyes were faded, as if with con- 
tinuous weeping. 

“ Good morning, Mrs. Burston, I am Mr. Bellamy — I 
wonder if you remember me,” said Walter, for the look she 
gave him held no sign of recognition. 

“ Oh, yes, I remember you,” answered the woman, though 
there was no lightening of the dull, detached air with which 
she regarded him, as though he were part of a system, a 
world, past her comprehension. 

“ I was wondering if, by any chance, you knew Mr. Gale’s 
present address? You’ll remember he used to come here to 
see me.” 

“Yes; but I don’t know his address.” Quite mechani- 
cally Mrs. Burston lifted a handful of her apron and began 
polishing the brass knob of the door, which was not so 
bright as it had been in the old days. 

“ Perhaps your daughter ” began Bellamy. It was 

this thought that had impelled him to call at the place; for 
had not Ada herself gone to Gale to tell him of the move 
— some four or five years earlier — into the “ Adelphi ” 
flat: “ If I could see her, she might be able to help me.” 

A dull red flooded Mrs. Burston’s face : — “ She is not 
here.” 


327 


BELLAMY 


328 

“ Oh, I’m sorry for that ! Perhaps she will be in later 
on?” 

“ No/’ 

“ Would she write — I will leave my address.” 

“ She is not here.” 

“ Well, if you’d give me her address — or let her know 
when you see her.” 

“ It ain’t likely as I’ll be seeing her ; at present anyways.” 

“ And you have seen nothing of Mr. Gale? ” 

“ No.” 

“ But Ada ” 

“ Aydar ain’t not here.” 

“ But she’ll be coming back some time, I suppose ? ” 

“ Mayhap — but ’tain’t likely.” 

" Perhaps if I were to write ? ” 

Again Mrs. Burston flushed hotly. “ I ain’t sure o’ her 
address; not just at this moment, not in my head, so to 
speak.” 

The woman’s manner implied something so evidently 
wrong, showed so plainly that she was unable, or unwilling 
to communicate with her daughter, that Bellamy felt there 
was little use in persisting. 

“ Well, I’m sorry to have troubled you, Mrs. Burston. I 
hope you’re quite well, and your husband and the little ones, 
though they must be quite big by now.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, that’s all right,” he said ; and with a nod and a 
smile was turning again towards the waiting taxi, when an 
ugly spasm — as though she were struggling with tears — 
crossed the woman’s face. 

“ She was never not the same after you came to lodge 
with us,” she said resentfully. 

“ But I ” Bellamy stared at her in amazement : — 

“ I never did anything.” 

“ No,” answered Mrs. Burston, “ that’s just it.” And 
moving back a step she shut the door, quite quietly, in his 
face. 

So that was the trouble ! With a shrewd guess as to what 
had become of Ada — for in his class “ the streets ” were an 
ever-present reality, a warning for any flighty girl, a never- 
failing terror for all respectable parents — Walter Bellamy 


BELLAMY 


3^9 

directed the taxi-driver to take him to the address on the 
borders of Pimlico which Hansen had provided, and then 
dismissed him; for he was nearer to things — the sort of 
things that influenced Gale's life — on foot. 

He was fortunate enough to find Mrs. Grant — his ex- 
charwoman — at home; the basement rooms, in which she 
lived, permeated with steam, for she was washing. 

From her he learnt that nearly a year earlier Gale had 
left Grove Buildings, after several moyes, and taken a single 
room in Strutton Ground. She could give Mr. Bellamy 
that address but she had not seen him since, had no idea if 
he were still there. 

“To tell the truth, sir/’ she said, rolling up her sodden 
hands in her apron — showing the front breadth of her 
skirt worn through to her stay busk — the inevitable badge 
of the wash tub, “ I hadn’t the heart ; there was nothing I 
could do. When ’ee was in Grove Buildings I’d go wash 
and tidy up a bit fur ’im. But by the time ’ee got to Strut- 
ton Ground there weren’t nothing left ter tidy. Terrible he 
looked. Broken down and ’alf starved — if you’ll excuse 
me saying so, sir,” she added; as though starvation was a 
fact of such vulgar banality, that it might reasonably offend 
the ears of such a personage as Bellamy. “ It made me cry, 
that it did. Though I see enough o’ that sort o’ thing about 
me, in all conscience. But a woman as can char can mostly 
happen on something to turn an honest penny by. With a 
gentleman it’s a different thing — and there’s no mistake 
about poor Mr. Gale being that. We can bear things there’s 
no expecting the gentry to bear, nohow.” 

As Bellamy made his way through the drab streets lead- 
ing from Morton Terrace, where Mrs. Grant lived, to Strut- 
ton Ground — the very place where he had first met Gale, 
how these creatures returned to their lairs ! — he wondered 
what of the “ gentleman ” would be recognisable in him, 
were he unshaven, ragged, half-starved. How many gen- 
erations it had taken to make Gale’s breeding visible beneath 
all this, even to the eye of a charwoman. For since that 
sudden outburst which had swept him off his feet the night 
before, Bellamy had realised a new, or rather a different 
point of interest in himself. 

He was vulgar — naturally. More, he liked being vuh 


330 


BELLAMY 


gar ; he loved scenes and intrigues. To make a splash with 
his money, to feel that people stared at him: the continual 
excitement of beginning afresh. The very things which so 
upset the traditional gentleman. 

Everything which he had started he had thrown aside, on 
arriving at the point where people had said all there was 
to say. 

But after all no part of his entire life had been so dull as 
the last two years; the years which had elapsed since his 
“ Great Idea ” had been in smooth working order. 

Certainly he had piled up money. 

But what was the good of money when one had to dress 
more quietly than an auctioneer’s clerk, behave more decor- 
ously. When everything could be had by merely paying 
for it. It would be better fun to pick pockets ! 

He remembered the old days when a motor of his own 
had been his supreme ambition. 

Well, he had a motor. But, after all, what was its soli- 
tary, smooth-running grandeur, compared to a swaying, 
pitching motor-’bus — with its buccaneering ways, the el- 
bowing of smelly humanity, the odd snatches of conversa- 
tion. 

He remembered being sent to the cooked fish shop in 
Edge to buy his parents a bowl of stewed eels for supper; 
and dipping his fingers into the jellied gravy — which was 
half glue — and sucking them. Nothing had tasted half so 
good to him since. 

After all, life was the only thing worth having. Life and 
yet more life. Intellectual joys were all in the past or the 
future : ambition defeated itself. As for money there was 
nothing which stood more surely between a man and real 
life. 

True — it might have brought him a wife with a title, or 
as many mistresses as he pleased. But he did not want 
that. If he wanted a woman at all, it was one who would 
curse him if she tired of him: or — and here was an odd 
contrast — - cook for him, work for him and with him, sit by 
his fire-side. Some one stable and comprehensible, who was 
used to the ways of men of his class ; who would not mind 
if he had cheese for breakfast, and sat down to dinner in 


BELLAMY 


331 

his shirtsleeves ; who — and this above all — wanted no 
other man in her life. 

And here — though Bellamy did not recognise it as such 
— was a clear case of atavism. For there is no woman — 
out of a harem — who so entirely relinquishes all other male 
society, when she marries, as the wife of the respectable 
English working man. 

On reaching Strutton Ground, Bellamy heard that Gale 
had left rather more than a month earlier. But the woman 
who kept a greengrocer’s shop on the ground floor of the 
house, directed him to yet another place, this time in Horse- 
ferry Road. 

Here, after climbing innumerable stairs — each flight 
headed by a landing, with dust-fringed pools of water be- 
neath grimy strings of washing ; and narrow doors, 
scratched and battered and defaced, as though entrance had 
been as eagerly sought as if they were the gates of heaven 
itself — Bellamy descended to the cellars and found a deaf 
and dumb cobbler, who wrote Gale’s address for him on the 
edge of a newspaper. 


CHAPTER LIII 


T HIS new address Bellamy found to be a second- 
hand dealer’s, with strings of clothing fluttering in 
lines outside the door — empty mockeries of poor, 
and for the most part, frail humanity ; while the chairs they 
had sat on, the tables they had ate at, debouched on to the 
street, along with empty parrot cages, and obsolete gramo- 
phones. 

In response to persistent knocking upon the counter inside, 
a woman of almost incredible frowsiness emerged from a 
trap-door in the floor, apologising for her slow appearance 
on the grounds that few customers called in the mornings. 
As for the people in the rest of the house, she declared — 
her face sullen when she realised that Bellamy had no wish 
either to buy or to sell — they were all sorts. For her, she 
“ didn’t mix with such folk.” 

But half a crown quickened her memory. 

There were two attics right at the top of the house, in 
one of which her husband kept his surplus stock. .She had 
heard him say that he had given some one leave to sleep 
there for eighteen pence a week — more fool him ! It 
might be the person wanted ; anyhow, if he liked, the gentle- 
man could step upstairs and see for himself. 

Bellamy did step up. And up, and up, and up, through 
a house so tall and narrow that it could scarcely have stood, 
save for its neighbours. 

The second-hand dealer’s stock in trade seemed to per- 
meate the place; indiscriminately mingled with the lodgers, 
for there was a baby fast asleep in the open drawer of a 
large chest, while the children, half naked, played at horses 
astride of chairs. 

. The house was full of noise. The snoring of some night 
bird. The whirr of a sewing-machine. A woman rau- 
cously abusing a child, for a “ dirty little slut ! ” A cracked 
high-pitched voice — which Walter found to belong to a 

332 


BELLAMY 


333 


crazed beldame, who sat on the stairs singing : “ My love 
is like a red, red rose.” The sound of frizzling fat. And 
beating through it all an incessant grinding moan, which 
broke into a loud shriek — like an animal in frantic pain — 
just as Bellamy topped the last landing but one. 

Here a couple of women were standing talking, their bare 
arms folded in their ragged aprons. With her moist eye on 
Bellamy one of them nodded towards a half-open door. 
“ It’s the first,” she explained affably. Then added, with a 
harsh laugh : “ An’ it’s alius the first as counts — I aughter 

know ’avin’ ’ad six meself — buried four an’ all.” 

At last the top landing, where the bannisters hung in mere 
shreds, was reached; and Bellamy, finding himself con- 
fronted by two doors, opened one at random: was met by 
a prodigious stench and flapping of wings, and discovered 
that the loft was being used as a pigeon-cote : turned to the 
other door — half blocked by a wardrobe and pile of bot- 
tomless chairs — and knocked. Then, hearing some sort of 
a sound from within, pushed it open — for there was no 
lock or handle — ? and, entering, found the man of whom 
he was in search. 

The place was full of furniture ; piled with gaping mat- 
tresses and rubbish of all sorts, right up to the very ceiling, 
save immediately beneath the skylight where, upon a mat- 
tress on the floor, lay Gale ; a little raised, as though he had 
propped himself up against a box which stood behind him ; 
and then, out of sheer weakness, slipped down and forward. 
y He was emaciated beyond anything Bellamy had ever 
seen; there were no blankets on the bed, only a few inde- 
scribable rags; while one thin hand clutched a tattered, 
grimy shirt — and here was the last touch, for at his lowest 
Gale had always been fastidiously clean — across his breast. 

For a moment or two he gazed at Bellamy blankly, with 
his glazed sunken eyes. Then as the other spoke, bending 
over him, a look of recognition dawned on the waxen face. 

“ Ah, Belle-amie,” he murmured — a ghost of the old 
twisted smile on his cracked lips with their dark surround- 
ing shadows : — “ Here we are, you see. The virtuous ap- 
prentice, and the rake — at the last stage of his progress.” 
He spoke in gasps, his voice so hoarse that Bellamy had to 
kneel down to catch what he said — “ How did you find 


BELLAMY 


334 

your way up here ? — It seems that poverty is much the 
same as the churchman’s after-world — the poorest highest 
up — and the richest nearest the fire. Ugh, the cold! it’s 
like a wolf at my vitals.” 

He shivered as he spoke; his shoulders thrust forward 
either side of his sunken chest. And indeed, though the 
sun streamed in a dusty ray through the skylight, it just 
missed the sick man; while, kneeling by his side, Bellamy 
was conscious of a draught which cut like a scythe across 
the floor. 

“ Gale, my dear fellow ! My poor, dear fellow ! I’ve 
been hunting everywhere for you; thought I’d never find 
you.” There was real feeling in Bellamy’s voice : he 
scarcely realised that he had not been spending the last 
three years in a fruitless search. 

“ What do you want ? ” It was the old bitter question. 

“ I want nothing except to help you — get you out of this 
horrible place.” 

Gale shook his head, again with that strange smile, as 
though more than half amused at his own plight. “ I can’t 
go — • I’m waiting — expecting a visitor.” 

A sense of chill came over Bellamy ; after all he was not 
needed — there were others. “ Some one who will help 
you I hope ? ” 

“ Some one who will help me eternally — the only true 
democrat,” answered Gale, with a glance of such mocking 
significance that Bellamy could not fail to catch his meaning. 

“ Nonsense ! I’m going to get you a doctor, straight 
away. And then, — if he’ll let me — a taxi to take you back 
to my place, for Hansen to look after — you remember 
Hansen ? ” 

“ My dear Bellamy, he’d turn me into a renegade — draw 

me into the bosom of the church at the last ” The 

broken words were interrupted by a prolonged struggle for 
breath, which left Gale bent forward above his knees — 
trembling from head to foot, with the sweat pouring down 
his face — but still he held to his point. “ Hansen’s so 
damned diaconal ! ” 

With an odd tenderness — though not without an exact 
picture of himself as a good Samaritan, who was possessed 
of no ulterior motive, and this amazed him, gave him quite 


BELLAMY 


335 

a new pleasure — Bellamy helped the sick man to lie down 
again, rolling a bundle of rags as comfortably as possible 
under his head. 

“ Just hold on a bit — I must go out and see about things 

— I'll be back in ten minutes,” he said, and, descending the 
innumerable stairs, found a chemist’s shop where they gave 
him the addresses of the nearest doctors. 

After ringing up three, he at last found one who was in 
and told him to call round at once ; then got on to his own 
number and bade Hansen come, bringing blankets and hot- 
water bottles. 

This done, he found a restaurant, and ordered some hot 
soup, leaving a deposit for the tin they lent him to carry it 
in ; then turned into a public-house and bought a small flask 
of brandy. 

Suddenly his fine gentlemanly ways seemed to have 
dropped from him. It did not even enter into his head to 
waste money paying a waiter to bring the soup, but carried 
it as naturally as he had once carried his own dinners to the 
mill in Edge. For the first time for years, he felt completely 
at his ease, in his right place ; the very crudeness of his sur- 
roundings fitted him. 

Back in the little loft he found he had no spoon and 
bribing a child from the next floor with a penny to fetch 
him one, fed Gale with soup and brandy — a sip at a time. 

As he was doing this, kneeling facing towards the door — 
with one arm beneath the sick man’s head — there was a 
hurried, deprecating knock ; then, with no pause for an 
answer, it was pushed slightly ajar, and a woman slid 
through the aperture. A battered wisp of a creature, who 
hung just inside the room, one arm drawn back behind her, 
one hand clutching the breast of her low-necked blouse, her 
pale blue eyes wide and fixed — not on Gale but on Bellamy 

— her weak mouth open, the rouge standing out like a blow 
on either cheek-bone. 

“ Ada,” whispered Gale. Then again, “ Ada, come here.” 

But the girl did not appear to notice his words. Her 
eyes, still on Bellamy, became suffused with red, as if tears 
strained at the back of them ; while her hand slid up to her 
throat. And the next moment — with an odd shrinking 
movement, as if to gather her lost womanhood and her 


336 BELLAMY 

flimsy garments around her at once — she had slipped from 
the door. 

With a gesture Gale signed to Bellamy that he should fol- 
low her ; and he did so. But in vain. For though he once 
caught sight of a bedraggled feather — two flights before 
him — by the time he reached the street door the wearer of 
it had disappeared, melted away into the motley crowd. 

“ IBs nothing,” said Gale, when Bellamy told him — 
“ nothing could be done. I’ve tried, but the whirlpool has 
got her.” For a moment he lay back, shivering so that Bel- 
lamy took off his coat and laid it over him. Then he spoke 
again. 

“ It’s beneath all of us — some escape — some are fore- 
doomed from birth. Some are always peeping over till they 
grow giddy and fall. But all alike we walk a plank above 
an abyss. Beneath us are despair — murder — profligacy 
— cruelty — lust — we try to believe they’re not there — 
only in books — in newspapers. Then some unutterable 
thing puts up an arm out of it all, and clutches us by the 
ankle,” he said; and fell silent again with his head sunk 
forward on his breast. 

“ The worst of it is,” he added again, after a long pause, 
“ she’s not wise enough to be really good — to have de- 
manded the price that so-called good women do demand — 
or clever enough to be successfully bad — after all success 
is an art.” 

“ She was always inclined that way,” remarked the other 
man; but Gale lay silent, plucking with thin white fingers 
at the nap of the coat which had been laid over him. And 
drawing a dilapidated chair from among the stack of furni- 
ture, Bellamy sat down upon it, with folded arms, listening 
to the sick man’s rattling breath, the coo and flutter of the 
birds next door, and the indescribably mingled sounds which 
penetrated from the lower floors — the seething stew of life 
and birth and death — in which he had a curious feeling of 
being the only distinct entity. 

After a little while the medley of the sounds was broken 
by a heavy footstep, and Hansen entered laden with blan- 
kets and parcels ; then turned to call to the doctor whom he 
had encountered in his search for the place. 

“ The place is a rabbit warren — I thought I was pretty 


BELLAMY 


337 

well used to this part, but I began to fear I was beaten,” 
said the latter, while the man-servant looked hopelessly 
round for a clean place upon which to lay down his load; 
finally, pulling forward a large tin bath, laid the blankets in 
it, and placed the hot-water bottles (still hot) at Gale’s feet. 

For a few moments there was silence; while the doctor 
— a heavily built man, with a weary, overstrained face- — 
knelt on the floor, examining his patient with the stetho- 
scope, and putting a few questions, which struck Bellamy 
as being more a matter of form than anything else. 

As he rose to his feet, and stood gazing down at 
the sick man, his mouth was set; while Gale looked up 
with the old twisted smile on his face. And so, for a full 
minute or more they regarded each other in a silence which 
lasted till Bellamy — feeling the look of comprehension be- 
tween the two men almost too poignant to be borne — broke 
it with the words : 

“ I’m afraid it’s an awful place to have brought you to, 
Doctor, but ” 

“ Oh, it’s all right ” The doctor turned, and, wiping 

his stethoscope on a silk handkerchief replaced it in his 
bag, which Hansen held open. 

4 ‘ I’m used to it, it doesn’t matter,” he added vaguely, his 
voice holding a sort of settled despair, for in the district 
where he lived and worked he was so seldom called in till 
it was too late for anything to matter. “ I’ll send round 
something that will ease the pain and shortness of breath.” 

“ A complaint most incidental to death,” put in Gale in 
his strained whisper. 

“ I want to take him away, back to my own place, where 
he could have a nurse — every sort of care. I suppose it 
could do no harm ? ” suggested Bellamy. 

The doctor glanced at his patient, then shrugged his 
shoulders. “ It can do no harm,” he said slowly. 

“ Nor good,” murmured Gale. No, no ! ” he gave a 
shudder of impatience as Bellamy began to insist. “ No, 
let me die as I’ve lived — what’s the good of masquerading 
at the last? ” 

“ You’d be better, sir,” put in Hansen. “ I’ve got a taxi 
outside. And with them blankets and all, Mr. Bellamy and 
I can carry you down quite safely.” 


BELLAMY 


338 

“ No — no, my good Hansen. I’ll stay here — till the 
next move.” Gale’s voice broke into a cough, but they 
caught words which sounded like a protest against prolong- 
ing the agony. 

“ It’s no good if he doesn’t seem inclined to go; nothing 
can make any difference,” put in the doctor. Then moved 
to the door with Bellamy at his heels. “ Pneumonia — oh, 
yes, the last stages — and everything else. Why, the man’s 
eaten through and through with fever and privation 
and ” he gave a significant gesture with his hand to- 

wards his mouth. “ The wonder is he’s held on so long — 
the way breeding tells ! Any one can see he doesn’t belong 
here. Of course he mustn’t be left. Keep him as warm as 
possible. He may last the night or he may flicker out any 
moment ; the heart’s in a terrible state. The stuff I’ll send 
you round will help it, but ” 

He turned again, half out of the door, and gave another 
long glance at the sick man, who was lying back with closed 
eyes, panting. Then moved down the stairs, with the in- 
curious air of a person who is well used to such places. 

Seeing that it was nothing less than cruelty to press Gale 
to move, Bellamy followed the doctor downstairs, and sent 
the taxi driver off with a note — which he scribbled on a 
leaf torn from his pocket-book — asking Mrs. Grant to 
come round at once prepared to stay the night, for what 
would have been the use of a professional nurse in such a 
menage. Then he moved along the road, making purchases 
which would not have occurred to any one who did not 
know what destitution meant. 

Back again in the high, narrow house, climbing slowly 
up the stairs — with the old sensation of being utterly wrung 
out by all the excitement of the last few hours — Bellamy 
observed that the last landing from the top was deserted; 
while through the half-open door came a murmur of voices, 
and the thin, persistent cry of reluctant life. 


CHAPTER LIV 


A FTER having seen Mrs. Grant established, with 
everything she could need at hand, and hunted out 
a more or less decent woman on the second floor, 
who — for a consideration — promised to hold herself in 
readiness for any emergency, Bellamy went back to his flat 
and bathed and changed. 

That morning, the first thing before he went out, he had 
— with an unusual sense of shame — acted up to the inso- 
lent offer he had made and sent Lady Templeton a cheque 
for a thousand pounds ; half believing that she would accept 
it, so greedy had she shown herself in the matter of settle- 
ment and wedding-presents. 

But she must have had some pride, despite her cheese- 
paring, for on getting back to his rooms he found an 
envelope, addressed in her narrow sloping hand, with his 
own cheque, returned to him without a word, neatly folded 
in a blank sheet of paper. 

So, they would sell their daughter, though they would not 
take gratuities : Bellamy shrugged his shoulders as he 
opened another letter, bearing Lady Constance’s sprawling 
caligraphy — so characteristic of the day and so totally de- 
void of all true character. 

But it was a piteous enough little epistle, despite its dash- 
ing appearance. 

“Dearest Walter: 

“ I don’t know how we came to quarrel last night or what 
I said — poor little me! — to make you so angry. Please 
do believe that I love you and will do anything you wish. 
Mamma is very angry, but it is you who count. I shall be 
walking with my maid in the park, near the Achilles statue, 
after tea, about half-past five. If you will be there we will 
talk things over. 

“ Yours always, 

“ Con.” 


339 


BELLAMY 


340 

In answer Bellamy wrote, what was perhaps the manliest, 
most truthful letter he had ever penned, telling her that he 
was not good enough for her — though here he felt himself 
to be lying — that she must put all thought of him out of 
her head ; that some day, when she was happy with a man 
of her own sort, she would thank him for what he had done. 

Then, with a sudden remembrance of Jane and the means 
she had used to turn aside poor Ada Burston’s fancy, he 
added these words, “ Besides all this — to tell you the quite 
honest truth, a truth I ought to have acknowledged to you 
long before — I care, and always have cared, for some one 
else ; though ” — and here he displayed his inveterate desire 
to leave some door open in all he said or did — “ it is not in 
the least likely that we shall ever be able to marry/' 

But, though he quoted Jane, Jane had been mistaken on 
one point — her innocent little lie wasted — Ada’s mother, 
all the good people, had been mistaken in the girl ; only Bel- 
lamy himself, and that useless fool, her father, had realised 
how she bent towards the abyss of which Gale spoke. It 
was a difficult world. After all was it better to be good — 
as the moralists term goodness — realising nothing of other 
people’s proclivities and temptations, or to be wise by ex- 
perience? For life is truly one of those things of which 
one can only gain experience at first hand. 

Lady Constance and Ada Burston ! After all there was 
not much difference between the two; save that the one 
was, and always would be, fenced in with an impassable bar- 
ricade of conventions, while the other was defenceless. 

And the bad, bold man of the story had let them both go 
free. Here Bellamy laughed, visualising himself as the two 
mothers would see him. 

There was another letter among the mail which awaited 
him ; one with an American postmark, which he carried off 
to his Club and smiled over as he ate his dinner. 

It was from a man he had known in America — a typical 
young Yankee who had kept up a desultory sort of corres- 
pondence with him, and now wrote asking him to do some 
odd commissions, among which was the securing of a real 
old-fashioned clown’s suit — “ I guess you’ll laugh fit to split 
yourself,” continued the letter, “ but I’m starting a circus ; 
been at it since the Fall, collecting freaks, and training the 


BELLAMY 


34i 


horses. It’s all pretty well ready now — real slap up affair 
— and we’re going to start on touring the West. Now, if 
you’d only come in as Ring-Master, our fortune would be 
made.” 

Something of his old boyish excitement lit up Bellamy’s 
face, as he read this epistle, then leant back for a few mo- 
ments, toying with the idea; while he glanced round at his 
indifferent companions, all alike absorbed in their food. 

“ What a lark it would be ! ” he thought, with a thrill of 
real excitement. Then put the letter aside while he ate his 
dinner; and returning to it as he smoked, found this post- 
script : “ By the by, we want a dwarf, not over three feet, 

less if possible. If you come across such a thing ship him 
out to me — ■ or better still come along too. There’s money 
in it, take my word for that.” 

The thought of the fellow’s crazy suggestion, that he — 
Walter Bonnet Bellamy, partner in Curst, Bellamy and Co. 
— ■ should actually be drawn over to America for the sake 
of becoming ring-master in a travelling circus — should 
moreover be distinctly attracted by the idea — tickled Bel- 
lamy so that, as he walked across St. James’s Park to make 
a last enquiry for Gale he thought he would tell him of it. 
There was just that sort of humour in the thing that the 
poor fellow would really appreciate. 

But Gale — seeming too far gone to be amazed at any- 
thing, even at his own fate — was leaning back amongst his 
pillows ; with Mrs. Grant nodding at his side, sunk deep in 
a disreputable armchair, which she had pulled down from 
among the stacks of furniture. 

But, though Gale did not stir or look up, she bestirred 
herself at Bellamy’s entrance, and gave him the latest re- 
port. The doctor had been. He said that Mr. Gale might 
live through the night, but it was doubtful. There was 
nothing to be done. She had everything she needed, was 
used to sickness. The second-hand dealer had been up 
making a scene — afraid of infection among his stuff — 
but she had sent him off. Oh yes, she was all right, not 
afraid. “ If only the poor gentleman could get better.” 
The tears rained down the good creature’s face as she spoke. 

“ If only ’e’d gone into the Infirmary a couple 0’ months 
back. But Lord bless yer, Mister Bellamy, ’ow could ’ee, a 


342 


BELLAMY, 


gentleman like ’im ! ” she said. And then — having lighted 
Bellamy down the first perilous flight of stairs — returned 
to her post. 

He would not have cared to have sat up all night in that 
eerie attic, he thought. But here was a woman, who was 
probably afraid of a mouse! — Oh, well, they were queer 
creatures; from Lady Constance Sartoris — with her tenta- 
tive offer to do all he wished — • downwards. 


CHAPTER LV 


W ITH a distinct sensation of being pleased at the 
growth of something in the way of real feeling, 
Bellamy’s first thought, on waking next morning, 
was for Gale. And he rose directly Hansen brought him 
his tea, fully determined to be with him by nine o’clock at 
the latest. 

But there was a pile of letters awaiting him, some of 
which had to be answered. Then Curst, who was in Town, 
rang him up and kept him a long while over the telephone. 
Thus, with one delay and another — the whole working to- 
gether in that curious fashion which makes the most deter- 
mined disbeliever in Providence feel that there is Some One 
who holds the strings, arranges our exits and our entrances 
— it was close on eleven before he left his own flat. 

Had it not been for this, and the brilliantly fine morning, 
which determined him to walk across St. James’s Park, he 
would not have encountered the very person whom he — at 
that moment — most wished to see, the lady who had 
spoken to Francis Gale nearly six years before, outside the 
entrance to the Tate Gallery. 

During the last year or so Bellamy had seen her several 
times ; most often walking in the Park with a couple of dogs, 
while once when he had been out with Lady Constance, the 
two women had bowed and smiled. 

“ It’s Lord Boynton’s eldest sister,” explained his be- 
trothed, after they had passed; “Lady Victoria Milne — 
the only one not married. She’s perfectly sweet. Of 
course she must be quite old now; she’d been out a long 
time when I was a tiny girl. Still I think she’s lovely — 
though Mamma doesn’t like her, calls her ‘ that old maid.’ 
But there must have been some romance — don’t you think 
there must have been some romance — she is so pretty! 
Isn’t she pretty, Walter?” 


343 


344 


BELLAMY 


How tired he had grown of that constant appeal for 
affirmation, on even the most trivial point. 

Now as he saw the quietly elegant-looking woman coming 
towards him, across the bridge which spans the lake, his 
mind was made up in a moment. And stopping, well in 
front of her, so that no mistake was possible, he raised his 
hat. 

“ Lady Victoria Milne ” 

“ Yes? ” The lady stopped and lifted her eyes quietly to 
his, with no heightening of the colour on her pale cheeks, 
though she was evidently surprised — “ I am Lady Victoria 
Milne, but I don’t think ” 

“You don’t know me — and I apologise for what must 
seem an unpardonable impertinence. Believe me I would 
not have dared to stop you like this, if it had not been about 
— what seems to me — a most serious, most urgent matter.” 
With his hat still in his hand Bellamy bent a little forward ; 
assuming that look which in the old Virgo days he would 
have designated as being “ of a serious sweetness.” 

But Lady Victoria did not seem impressed; while her 
expression and attitude was so neutral that he felt convinced 
she was listening to him as she would to any ordinary beg- 
gar, with a gentle tolerance that was ready to weigh every 
word. But that withal, she was not very much concerned, 
or even inclined to find offence in the fact of his being a 
stranger. Had, in fact, lived so long, and so completely, 
brooding over one thought, that all the rest of the world had 
grown shadowy, outside and beyond herself. 

But in his next words there was no doubt that Bellamy 
reached that inner sanctum of her heart and mind. 

“ One day, several years ago, I think that I saw you 
speaking to my friend Francis Gale. It was outside the 
Tate Gallery; I wonder if you remember?” 

“ Yes,” the word was a mere breath. If possible Lady 
Victoria was whiter than before as she uttered it; but for 
all that it was as though some light, soft and yet intense, 
had been kindled within her, shining through the clear skin, 
the brown eyes, the parted lips. 

“He is ill — very ill, I’m afraid. He lives ” Bel- 

lamy’s voice, broke, the word “ lives ” seemed like a chal- 
lenge flung in the face of the gods, for more than twelve 


BELLAMY 


345 

hours ago life had been so palpably hovering for flight ; then 
he pulled himself together, though he could not have dared 
to repeat the word — “ over there ” — he made a gesture 
with his hand in the direction of Victoria Street. “ I was 
on my way to see him now. And as you know him, I 
felt 

“I will come;” Lady Victoria spoke very quietly, she 
had already turned, and — almost insensibly — Walter 
moved on, while she walked at his side. 

“ It is a pretty bad locality — he has been in very low 
water, poor fellow. I don’t know whether I have any right 
to take you there,” he demurred. 

“ I think that there can be no question of that.” 

“ But I’m not sure ” began Bellamy again, with his 

irresistible desire to find a reason for, to justify everything. 
How did he know what these two had been to each other. 
Gale must have had many such friends in his old life; it 
might be that he was taking too much for granted. “ I 
don’t know,” he repeated, “ you see, Gale has never told 
me anything of himself.” 

“ I think that in a great emergency one knows things that 
one has never been told. You knew — somehow you knew 
directly you saw me, what else made you speak ? — that he 
is all I have ever cared for.” She spoke quietly and simply ; 
then, as they moved out of the park, put up her hand and 
hailed a passing taxi. 

“ I think we’d better drive, we shall get there more 
quickly. And it may — may make all the difference,” she 
added, while, for the first time, her voice faltered. 


CHAPTER LVI 


D URING that drive, which he never quite forgot, Bel- 
lamy’s companion sat leaning a little forward : with 
something in her attitude — quivering yet tense-— 
which reminded him of a runner, whose whole soul is 
thrown before him to the goal towards which he strains, 
oblivious of all else; while the very pose of her clear-cut 
profile — turned, neither towards him nor towards the win- 
dow, but with the brown eyes, those eyes of a mystic, set 
straight before her — intensified the impression. 

She was very plainly dressed in dark blue serge, with a 
touch of white at the neck and a black hat. But there was 
still that sense of something exquisite about her which Bel- 
lamy had noticed before : and along with it that delicate air 
of virginity, which some women preserve, unfaded, to their 
death. 

She was not young; indeed, gave the impression of look- 
ing older than she really was, for the pale skin was traced 
with fine lines, and there was grey among the soft hair 
which showed at either side of her hat. And yet, at the 
same time there was something of unquenchable youth, 
which it was difficult to explain: unless by saying that it 
was the pure, distilled spirit of a womanhood which had 
passed its years in waiting. 

Bellamy — realising that she did not feel his glance — 
studied her intently. There was something in her that he 
wanted to get at, to understand. At the bottom he had a 
very poor opinion of what he called “ swells,” for the mis- 
trustful contempt of the idle rich — which he had brought 
with him from Edge — had been strengthened by experi- 
ence. Yet here was something, at once the outcome of birth 
and beyond birth. 

Half through Strutton Ground the road, narrowed by 
stalls, was blocked with a coal cart, from which the tail- 
board had broken away, while the contents littered the road. 

346 


BELLAMY 


347 

# Bellamy, watching, rather cruelly, for any signs of impa- 
tience, saw his companion’s hands — which lay clasped in 
her lap — involuntarily tighten, and suggested walking the 
rest of the way, only a few hundred yards at most. 

To this she assented; and getting out, Walter paid the 
driver; then led the way, between the stalls and along the 
crowded pavement — littered with rubbish, slippery with 
orange and banana peel; and blocked with perambulators 
and go-carts, which exuded children and groceries. 

It was a mean, ugly scene, with the hard spring sunshine 
streaming down upon it ; fetid with the odour of humanity 
and coarse cooking. 

“ I’m sorry to have to bring you through such an awful 
place.” Bellamy, unable to remain silent, felt impelled to 
some sort of apology; though, having spoken, he became 
aware that the woman at his side was completely oblivious 
of all apart from the man whom she was on her way to see. 
And here was another point which roused his curiosity; for, 
in the same position, he would have worked himself into a 
dramatic fever over the fact of any one he loved, or fancied 
he loved, living in such a place, amid such surroundings. 

It was the same as he mounted the staircase, in front of 
her so as to clear the way. For turning at each landing he 
saw the pure oval of her face lifted out of the dimness, 
with unwavering eyes gazing upwards and past him. 

The door of the attic was a little open. He could hear 
the murmur of voices, and a hoarse rattling breath — thank 
God, Gale was still alive ! 

With a thrill of real joy at the thought of whom he was 
bringing — not unmixed with an excited sense of the dra- 
matic — Bellamy asked his companion to wait for a moment 
on the landing and went inside. 

There were blankets and sheets now, drawn up to the 
dying man’s chin, and piles of white pillows at his back. 
A pair of old curtains had been draped over the adjoining 
furniture, and a screen put round the bed ; while a tray — 
with a clean cloth on it, and bottles and glasses — stood by 
his side ; but for all that the place looked dismal enough. 

Some one had pulled the mattress forward a little, so that 
the dusty light fell full upon Gale — who was lying back 
against the pillow scarcely breathing, with the blue shadows 


BELLAMY 


348 

intensified round his eyes and lips — while the doctor knelt 
beside him, his ear against his bare chest; and facing the 
door stood Mrs. Grant, wringing out cloths and sponges in 
a basin of steaming-hot water. 

“ He ’ud be washed, though* it wur waste o’ time — so 
soon ! ” She shook her head significantly. She was used 
to death, had washed many dead people, and her words held 
that curious mixture of matter-of-factness and feeling, so 
common to a woman who has passed her life in close prox- 
imity to birth and death. 

The doctor put up one hand, as if to bid them be still. 
But, though they did not speak again, the silence was only 
comparative. For up the well of the staircase came the 
sound of the crazed woman singing, a child fell with a 
scream, bump — bump — down the stairs ; while in the ad- 
joining loft the pigeons fluttered and cooed without ceasing. 

It was dramatic! Bellamy's keen sensibilities took it all 
in at a glance : the doctor in his black coat, the white bed, 
Gale’s thin hands plucking at the blankets; and the red- 
faced woman — her lips trembling, the tears running down 
either cheek — all alike swimming in a sunlit haze of dust. 

As the doctor rose to his feet, and put by his stethoscope 
— with that same brooding air, as if things were past all 
curing — Bellamy moved forward and touched him on the 
arm. “There is some one — a lady, waiting to see your 
patient. Do you think ? ” 

“ Who is it ? ” It was Gale who spoke, his voice seeming 
to come from some interminable distance. 

“ Who is it ? ” he repeated. Then catching at either side 
of the mattress he pulled himself upright. 

“ Ask her — to come in,” he said, while to his amazement, 
Bellamy saw the same inward glow, which had illuminated 
Lady Victoria’s face, shine through Francis Gale’s; 
stamped, as it already was, with death. 


CHAPTER LVII 


A T five that evening Gale died. 

It had been the most curiously detached day that 
Bellamy had ever known. The first day in his 
whole life when he had felt himself to be a looker-on instead 
of an actor — the principal actor — in life’s immediate 
drama. 

The doctor could do no more. Mrs. Grant felt that she 
ought to go home for a few hours and see after her children 
— as the lady was there and there was nothing to do. 
Later on she would be needed. 

Bellamy sat on the top step of the stairs. A spirit-lamp, 
along with a kettle and small saucepan, had been bought for 
Gale’s room; and he kept it lighted on the landing at his 
side. Hot water was always needed in sickness ; then there 
were the bottles to be kept constantly filled, for the sick 
man was growing deathly cold. 

Towards one o’clock Bellamy went downstairs, with the 
same tin as he had carried the day before, and bought hot 
soup which he insisted on Lady Victoria eating. But she 
could not take much ; and a little later he fetched some milk, 
then — with the handiness which must distinguish every man 
whose mother has gone out charing, leaving him to grapple 
single-handed with the housework — made her some tea. 

Hearing the rattle of cups and the movement overhead, 
the woman on the landing below crawled to her door, and 
sent a hoarse whisper up to him — “ There’s no one been 
near me since the mornin’ — an’ I’m near dead with thirst.” 

“ All right — go back to bed and I’ll bring something 
down to you,” Bellamy called over the bannisters, with a 
glimpse of a dishevelled figure and grey face against the 
lintel of the door below ; made some more tea, and cut thin 
bread and butter and, taking it down, laid it by the mattress 
where the sick woman had again thrown herself. Then 
bent and peered at the red crinkled face upon her breast. 

349 


BELLAMY 


350 

“ The nipper all right ? ” He was genuinely interested, 
as she moved the child so as to turn on her side to drink. 
The cry it sent out, enraged, insistent; the way it beat the 
air with its tiny clenched fists fascinated him. 

“ Oh, he’s right enough — a boy. But in a fine paddy — 
I was that dry, you see, there wasn’t nothing for him. ,, 
The girl’s face — she could not have been more than 
eighteen — was full of pride, as she handed him the cup, 
and drew the child again to her breast. One might imagine 
she had fulfilled a destiny affecting the whole world, instead 
of merely bringing another nameless brat into an unappre- 
ciative world. 

Back on his step — where he had spread a newspaper to 
sit upon — Walter again took up his vigil; with that odd 
feeling which had come to him so often before, of some- 
thing being about to happen: not only Gale’s inevitable 
death, but something in himself. 

He had wrapped the tails of his frock-coat high round 
him to keep them as far as possible from contact with the 
floor ; and now folding his arms round his knees, sat gazing 
meditatively at his patent-leather boots, mechanically occu- 
pied with his old trick of moving his toes backwards and 
forwards inside them. After all where was the fun of 
wearing boots when one never wore clogs, and there was no 
comparison to be made — all the savour of life lay in its 
contrasts. 

The door behind him would not keep shut. He could 
hear the woman’s soft voice, and Gale’s hoarse whisper, 
even an occasional broken laugh which — curiously enough 
to his mind — told of happiness. 

“ It was the one good thing I ever did — going away — 
keeping away,” he heard the dying man say. 

And then again — “ It was because — I did love — and 
eternally — do — love you.” 

“ I never really lived — was only the scapegoat — the con- 
glomerated ghost — of the sins — of my fathers.” 

Much was lost among the other noises which permeated 
the place. But sometimes whole sentences like this were 
audible ; while he could hear Lady Victoria speaking of her 
own life — and once there was a sound as though she were 
praying. 


BELLAMY 351 

It was odd how their subdued voices seemed to dominate 
all the louder turmoil of the place. 

Between the roof of the attic, where Gale lay, and the 
pigeon loft next door, was a narrow space. Several times 
while Bellamy had been with him he had seen a pair of 
bright eyes, an arched neck and smooth sweep of shining 
breast press tentatively forward and then retreat. 

The woman was speaking of religion — of Christ and the 
Virgin — of the Holy Ghost — the Dove. 

Bellamy had often laughed at such things. But he could 
not have laughed now : it all seemed part of the whole. 

After a pause he heard Gale’s voice whispering — very 

low : — “ I couldn’t, Vic — it’s not real to me. I ” he 

said. Then suddenly broke out, quite loudly, almost in his 
old voice : — “ God, that’s funny ! ” 

With flutter of wings, a white pigeon — somehow em- 
boldened by the hush, — had pushed forward into the room : 
hovered, for a moment with beating wings above the mat- 
tress, and then, perching on a beam which ran beneath the 
roof, begun to preen itself. 


CHAPTER LVIII 

I N looking back on his life Bellamy always saw it in a 
series of acts. 

The first began — not when he went to work, for 
that was inevitable — but when he left the Shades, relin- 
quishing the highest rate of wages which it was possible 
for any boy of his age to earn in Edge : the next on finding 
he had been tricked over the automatic spooler — what fol- 
lowed was merely cause and not effect: the third with his 
entry into the Virgo Health and Beauty Parlour; and the 
fourth on his meeting with Sir George Curst. 

Now with Gale’s death he embarked on the preliminaries 
of the fifth act. 

Curiously enough, through it all, though Bellamy boasted 
of many affairs with women they had none of them been 
the cause of any one of these changes, till Victoria Milne 
became rather inexplicably mingled with this fifth act, per- 
haps because through her, Bellamy first realised the strength 
and persistence of the merely spiritual; recognising an un- 
trodden and untried ground as far removed from the spir- 
itualism of his charlatan days as are the two poles. 

This knowledge affected him in a curious fashion; strik- 
ing at the root of that utter boredom which now took the 
form of a furious impatience, with the exacting, and hardly 
learnt, business of being a gentleman. 

For the first time in his life he began to spend money 
rashly; with no calculated effort at display. He made — 
apart from Lady Victoria — the rashest sort of friends. 
More than once found himself decidedly the worse for 
drink. 

Any one might have said that he was going to the dogs — 
which was exactly what Sir George Curst felt, though he 
was far too discreet to say anything. 

But as a matter of fact Bellamy was engaged in growing 
something in the way of a soul; a process which rendered 

352 


BELLAMY 


353 

him as restless and irritable as an infant which is cutting its 
teeth. 

The only person who could assuage this restlessness was 
Victoria Milne ; and in her quiet flat in Queen Anne’s Gate 
he found something of peace. 

She was a devout Catholic. Bellamy had always pro- 
fessed a complete disbelief, but his early training and asso- 
ciation must have gone deeper than he realised — his ve- 
hement disavowals had always lacked something of Gale’s 
cool indifference — and now a faint wavering tendril of 
Primitive Methodism intermingled, oddly enough, with the 
more exotic belief of his new friend ; swinging him to and 
fro between devotion and dissipation. 

But still there was this one definite step upwards. For 
the first time in his life he did not care in the very least 
what any one said or thought of him: forgot the footlights. 

As for Curst, Bellamy and Co., nothing — not even the 
whisper of failure — could revive his interest in the great 
business which he had brought into being; and which now 
seemed to be in danger of that dissolution which threatened 
his whole world. 

Things were tumbling to pieces all around him ; there was 
the crash of falling in the air. He felt as a man might feel 
in an earthquake, only anxious that everything that stood 
should come down and have done with it. 

In turns he visualised himself as a sort of Napoleon — 
terribly alone, standing with folded arms, surveying a shat- 
tered civilisation — St. Helena before him as a fresh jump- 
ing-off place. Or as a circus clown, kicking his foot through 
a paper-covered hoop : a god of a clown, with a world for a 
plaything ! 

Life had never seemed at once so terrible and so comic. 
With the actual need for work had gone the one guiding 
thread through the maze. 

He strained to catch something of Lady Victoria’s calm 
faith ; but only the fear of God came back to him, the forms 
of her religion were merely — apart from the music — ex- 
asperating. He had been a mummer too long himself, re- 
alised all the wires, which went to the working of it. 

Another swing of the pendulum led to the establishment 
of a pretty and demure mistress. He felt that he wanted 


354 


BELLAMY 


something more or less stable in life; and realised that he 
could trust her to be faithful as long as was necessary. 

But at the end of a week that also failed him, and he did 
not care whether she was faithful or not. 

By this time his business was in a parlous state; but his 
mind refused to work upon it ; to regard it as anything be- 
yond an immense source of irritation. The solemn con- 
claves of the directors enraged him so that he could have 
screamed, as did his partner’s remonstrances. 

“ Just when the business needs all the care and thought 
that we can give it,” complained Curst : “ you’re here, there 
and everywhere; there’s no getting hold of you. I tracked 
you from telephone to telephone the other morning and 
heard you had gone to church — Next morning at ten o’clock 
I rang you up and Hansen said you hadn’t got home till three 
in the morning and were asleep. Church again, I suppose.” 

Bellamy laughed : “ Variety is charming, I don’t believe 
you’ve ever realised how charming, Curst. I remember that 
morning, there was a special Mass at Westminster Ca- 
thedral — such boys’ voices ! And the night that fol- 
lowed ’Pon my soul I don’t remember what happened 

then.” 

“ Look here, Bellamy,” Sir George Curst brought his large 
hand down heavily on the table. “ I can’t believe that you 
really realise how serious things are.” 

“ It’s not that I don’t realise it,” answered Bellamy, and 
yawned : “ it’s that I don’t care. And nothing’s so dull as 
talking about things one doesn’t care about. Don’t you feel 
that yourself, now, Curst ? ” 

“ Well, it means ruin if there’s any truth in the report 
about that new invention of Weislers — and it’s pretty well 
an established fact by this time. Ruin! will that touch 
you ? ” . Sir George spoke slowly with emphasis on each 
word, his heavy head thrust forward, his eyes on Bellamy. 
If the thought of financial ruin would not rouse his junior 
partner to some sense of his own danger what would ? Be- 
sides, at the back of Curst’s capable, slow-moving brain was 
the thought that, if only he chose to do something — to 
really set his mind to it — Bellamy might divert the threat- 
ened catastrophe. For having no inventive faculty himself 
Curst could see no limit to its powers. Bellamy might be 


BELLAMY 


355 

an ass in many ways, but his resourcefulness was beyond 
dispute. 

This time,' however, he refused to rise to the occasion ; 
but lounging over to one of the windows of the stately suite 
of offices, where the famous firm conducted its London busi- 
ness, stood for a moment or so, staring out, with his hands 
in his pockets ; then laughed. 

“ There’s the cleverest little devil out there, throwing 
Catherine wheels all along the pavement; what a lark it 
must be!” 

“ Ruin ! ” repeated Sir George with the finality of despair. 

“ Well, you’ve got your old business still, you know, and 
after all I don’t suppose I shall starve.” 

“ Oh, if that’s all you care about ! ” 

“Well, it’s the principal thing, isn’t it? One’s no good 
when one’s dead,” answered the other man cheerfully: re- 
alising that was what he had arrived at — or got back to. 
The working-class philosophy in which a sufficiency of food 
is the only thing that really counts. 

As far as he was concerned, the sooner the whole thing 
came to an end the better he would be pleased. For in a 
way it tied him and he was mad to start all over again. 

At last Curst became so exacting, took up so much of his 
time — while the directors proved themselves so contrary 
and panic-stricken — that his patience broke and he went 
abroad, where he spent a whole year travelling about the 
Continent with dubious companions; gambling a good deal 
and haunting Roman Catholic churches, endeavouring to 
find something which his keener, subconscious self knew, 
all the while, was not to be got at in any such fashion. 

By the time he at last got back to England Curst, Bel- 
lamy and Co. had ceased to exist. 

There were no very great libabilities. The thing had 
paid too well while it lasted : and most of the capital put into 
it — on its transformation into a company — was still in- 
tact, while their supplanters had taken over the greater part 
of the machinery. 

It was an honourable defeat; and luckily Curst, who 
knew his business through and through, had realised the 
moment that he was beaten and not attempted to keep the 
thing going. The aloe-fibre silk had not proved a failure, 


356 BELLAMY 

it had simply been ousted by something else, was as useless 
as a pricked bubble. 

He had been prepared for anything. In all fashion 
trades one must feather one’s nest while one can; and sub- 
mit to the inevitable fluctuations. 

The really unfortunate thing about it all was the fact 
of a new discovery having been made, just at the precise 
moment when it was most inconvenient to Curst, Bellamy 
and Co. 

The turn in fashion’s wheel had, quite suddenly, decreed 
that nothing excepting dull-surfaced silk should be the vogue. 
The aloe-fibre product had always been irradicably shiny 
and silky : three years before that had been regarded as its 
greatest beauty. 

But still, real — hard — silk was too costly for general 
use; besides, the supply would not have been equal to the 
demand. Thus Curst and Bellamy’s might have held on had 
not another firm discovered a new — and so far strictly 
guarded — secret method of producing an even cheaper 
silk ; capable of either a dull or brilliant finish. 

For a while urgent letters and telegrams followed Bel- 
lamy as he zig-zagged his meteoric way about Europe. Then 
they ceased; and, feeling that the Old Man of the Sea had 
at length dropped from his shoulders, he lingered for a 
while — still restless and unhappy, for he had no work to 
do, though somewhat stimulated by the thought that almost 
all his money was gone, and he would soon be bound to 
start afresh — 'then made his way back to London. Draw- 
ing in, gradually, as his funds really reached bottom; feel- 
ing, once more, all the delight of planning, of running the 
margin fine, risking an almost wicked extravagance, and 
tnen creating an appetite by going without. 

He had begun to grow as slim and alert as in the old 
days: shedding his slow-moving mind with his superfluous 
girth. By the time he reached Town, consulted his bank- 
book and realised to a nicety the stimulating limitations of 
his funds, he felt life was becoming a “ lark ” once more, 
now that he was newly stripped for the fight. 

On his second day in England he went to call on Lady 
Victoria. . 

It was late autumn and he was fortunate enough to find 


BELLAMY 


357 

her alone, during those precious hours between tea and din- 
ner, when intimate conversation — which deals with feel- 
ings and aspirations, not mere material matters — seems 
easiest. 

They sat over the fire for a long time talking, and Bel- 
lamy told her of his wanderings, his restlessness: the way 
in which the devil of prosperity had driven him into the 
wilderness, though he confessed to at least seven of like 
calibre to bear him company. Then they drifted off to 
speak of Gale ; while she told him more than she had ever 
done before of their common youth together — for she had 
known him since he was a boy at school. 

It seemed as if during the year, and more, of Walter Bel- 
lamy’s absence she had so missed having some one to whom 
she could talk of her dead love — who knew something of 
him during his last years — that his friendship had grown 
more valuable to her; she was ready to give more in re- 
turn. 

It appeared that Gale’s weakness was hereditary. It had 
overcome him during a hunt-breakfast while he was still at 
Eton, gained in ascendance during his college days, had in- 
deed been the ultimate reason of their parting. For they 
had loved each other very, very much — she put it in the 
simplest of words — had even talked of marriage; till her 
people’s objection to the match seemed to bring him to a 
fuller understanding of his own weakness. Then it was as 
if he saw himself as a menace to her happiness, to a future 
generation. 

For a long time he fought against his besetting sin ; while 
she wrestled with him, and for him. Then, quite suddenly, 
the fatalistic strain — so strongly developed in his nature — 
got the better of him. He grew frightened of himself, or 
for her: threw up his studies for the Bar, and disappeared, 
dropped out. 

That meeting outside the Tate Gallery was the first she 
had seen of him for eight years. 

And then came the end in Little Peter Street. 

Nothing had ever touched her love for Gale. Ever would 
touch it, for she believed in the immortality, the complete 
permanency of real love. 

Bellamy at the opposite side of the fire, looking at her as 


BELLAMY 


358 

she leant back in her chair with her hands folded in her 
lap — compared her life with his — for he would always 
be too complete an egotist to find any other standard of com- 
parison. 

How much had she lost and he gained by his full life, his 
many light loves. Or again how much had she gained and 
he lost by his lack of any one definite ideal. 

“ There is a girl in the place where I lived as a boy, who 
might be capable of loving like that/’ he said slowly. 

“Is that Jane?” 

“ Why, how did you know of Jane? ” Bellamy stared in 
amazement. 

“ That afternoon I was with Frank, not long before he 
died, I spoke of you, how good you had been to him, and he 
said : — 4 Rum fish, Belle-amie — there’s a girl — Jane — he 
ought to marry Jane/ ” 

“Yes — he knew her ; she came up to nurse me once when 
I was ill. Three — four years ago, or more.” 

“Well, why don’t you?” 

With one of his old quick movements Bellamy flung to 
his feet and stood on the hearthrug before her. 

“ My dear lady, the idea of my marrying ! ” He threw 
out his hands and shrugged his shoulders. “ Do you re- 
alise that I’m broke — absolutely broke? I’m going up to 
see Curst next week to find out if there are any pickings 
left — that is if I can get together my train fare. And 
then ” 

“ Then?” 

“ Then ! then ! Oh, all sorts of things are possible,” he 
laughed boyishly. “ I’m bursting with ideas ” 

“ You could do a lot of good — you know so much about 
the working people — what they suffer, how they live.” 

“ With the conviction at the back of me that nothing is 
unendurable except not to be a worker. Philanthropy ! 
My dear lady ! I could never do it. It would bourgeon and 
blossom into the most blatant socialism — or cut away into 
anarchy, with one eye always on the Press headings. I’d 
start a new religion, or play hanky-panky tricks with an 
old one. It’s no good, I could never do the thing simply. 
Besides, there’s too much charity in the world as it is. We 
don’t want it.” 


BELLAMY 


359 

“ Why not go back to your old business ? You under- 
stand that.” 

“ Only too well ! ” Bellamy made a grimace of disgust. 

“.Look here, Lady Victoria, I’m a poseur — a blageur — 
a pickle-herring as our people say — to the very finger-tips. 
I think I’ve got beyond considering what individual people 
think of me ; but I love to set the multitude a-gaping. 
There are endless openings for professional religionists — 
agitators. And the worst of it is I feel I could do it so 
jolly well. But I don’t want to go into anything where I 
have to pretend I’m not lying, when I am : it’s so dull to do 
a thing very well and have no one applaud.” 

“ What’s wrong with your life is that you’ve never wanted 
anything badly enough.” 

“ Oh, haven’t I ? I wanted to get on, and now I’ve got 
on — and where am I ? Don’t quote the execrable old pun 
as to ‘ getting honour/ ” 

“ One needs a better stimulant than mere general success ; 
one supreme ambition or affection. Can’t you find out what 
you really want to do ; not what you want to get by doing — 
that’s always tasteless.” 

“ I want the best opportunity of being myself ” 

Walter spoke slowly and with unusual difficulty ; trying to 
put his thought into words, to answer quite truthfully the 
question in Lady Victoria’s brown eyes : — “ of using the 
sort of faculties I have, without the chance of doing any 
harm to any one. If I could — if it weren’t too late — 
I’d be a conjuror; do you understand what I mean? ” 

“ I think I do.” 

“ There is one thing ” Bellamy had thrust his hands 

into his pockets as he spoke, felt in one of them a letter 
which had lain there, half forgotten, from the day before; 
and suddenly — with that odd feeling as though it was, and 
always had been, the only, the one inevitable idea — seized 
upon a suggestion which it contained : “ I believe there is 
a chance of finding my niche.” He swung to and fro upon 
his heels in front of the fire, his eyes dancing with merri- 
ment. 

His expression of mystery and delight was infectious, and 
the woman sitting in the low chair at the side of the hearth 
laughed up in his face. 


BELLAMY 


360 

“Well?” 

“Well ? Well? Look here, it’s such a magnificent 

idea — such a stupendous lark, that — as you started on the 
subject of a certain person — don’t you think I ought to go 
up to Edge and tell her about it first of all ? ” Bellamy 
laughed teasingly. To him a secret was always such an 
irresistible thing that he made sure his companion would 
insist on being told. But she took it quite gravely. 

“Jane, you mean? Yes, I think you are quite right.” 

“Jane, plain-jane! I used to call her because of her 
snubbing, straight-spoken little ways. Do you know what 
her whole name is? Jane Irwin! There’s something un- 
compromising for you. And do you know what she’s like? 
Five foot nothing, with a skin like porcelain, and hair so 
fair it’s almost silver.” 

Walter’s voice rang out its old sing-song. He had not 
yet had time to get his hair cut, and that characteristic crest 

— with its thread or so of grey — was erect once more ; he 
was wearing old clothes, he was sunburnt, there was no 
trace of smugness left. 

“ A ‘ come-and-kiss-me ’ mouth, and grave condemning 
eyes,” he went on. It was delightful to recount Jane’s per- 
fections. Of course that was why the French and Italian 
women had wearied him so, none had Jane’s silvery fair- 
ness; and those others, all too complacent after Jane’s bitter 
sweetness. 

Jane and the life that the letter in his pocket offered to 
him. Of course that was just the thing he wanted. Nay 

— more pressing — needed , had needed from the very be- 
ginning. 

“ When you go and tell her — what you won’t tell me — I 
wonder what she’ll say.” 

“ They have a phrase in Edge, for any one who is differ- 
ent — a card — they say : — 4 Well, ain’t you a real knock- 
out.’ Ten to one that’s what she’ll say.” Bellamy laughed ; 
he could almost hear Jane say it. 

“ Walter,” Lady Victoria had risen; and now stood, with 
one hand on the mantel-piece, looking at him very gravely 

— it was the first time she had ever used his name, and 
curiously enough it gave him a little chill, as though he re- 
alised she was going to say something which might ruffle 


BELLAMY 


361 


how long is it since you 
perhaps more.” 


him, and wished to soften it: 
saw her ? ” 

“ As I said, between three or four years 

“ And you think that she cared ? ” 

“I — well, I think she did. She was always jumping on 
me, you see.” 

“ And you left her there all alone, through all those years 
of prosperity.” 

“ She lived with my mother, till she died, two years ago.” 

“ And even then you never went to her? ” 

“ No.” Bellamy fidgeted from one foot to another, feel- 
ing like a guilty schoolboy under Victoria Milne’s accusing 
eyes. 

“ Well, I wouldn’t go now if I were you. Ten to one 
she’s married — happy.” 

“ Oh, but I would have heard ! ” Bellamy felt that there 
was something fatuous in the words, but they were out be- 
fore he realised what he was going to say. 

“ Why should you have heard ? She doesn’t belong to 
the great world; her life’s her own, as much as yours is 
your own. It was a caddish thing to do — to leave her like 
that : as though she wasn’t worth troubling about.” 

“ What can you expect from a pig but a grunt.” Bel- 
lamy gave a careless shrug ; it was almost as if he was proud 
of his reversion to type, but for all that his face flushed. 

“ Of course I knew you weren’t a gentleman, as we count 
it ; ” Lady Victoria spoke with such matter-of-fact gravity, 
that the words were robbed of all offence : it was as though 
she might have said : “ I knew you were a dark man and 
not a fair man.” — “ But I did think you had constancy. 
Oh, you men! You leave your coat in a cloak-room for 
an hour, with the guarantee of a numbered ticket. But you 
leave a woman anyhow, anywhere, and expect to find her 
still waiting — ready and willing — directly you want her.” 
Lady Victoria spoke with heat, almost with passion. 

“ I hope she is married — happily married. I hope she 
has never even thought of waiting,” she added. 


CHAPTER LIX 


B ELLAMY’S idea had been to go to Wantage first to 
see Curst, and then on to Jane. 

But he reversed his plans. Lady Victoria’s words 
had bitten deep. It was true he had always thought of 
Jane as waiting. 

On the crest of each wave he had forgotten; but in the 
depths, which divided one from another, he had looked up 
to her as his own .bright peculiar star: through all the ebb 
and flow of life the idea of her constancy had been a solace 
to his vanity. In those dust and ashes moments she had 
been the only one he ever thought of. 

Now for the first time he asked himself why she should 
be constant. She had never even said that she loved him; 
he had taken it all for granted. 

With a feeling as if his imagination had been violently 
wrenched round, he pictured Jane as the wife of a steady 
working man, a weaver. 

The man was horribly real: pale and narrow chested, as 
are most weavers. Three years — no, it was four. She 
had two children. He saw them quite plainly ; sticky, 
chubby toddlers, likenesses of their father. Jane would 
leave them with a “ minder ” and go to work as usual ; get- 
ting up early and cutting her butties by lamplight, just the 
same as she had done on that far-off day when he had taken 
her the first silk coat. But now there would be a man there, 
putting on his clean boots, washing at the sink, drinking 
his tea. 

When Jane ran back for dinner, when she returned in the 
evening, the man would come and go. Kiss her when he 
liked, rail at her when he liked ; dandle the children which 
should by rights have been Bellamy’s ; lean against the door- 
post talking on summer evenings. 

He could see it all. The spotless little kitchen ; the man’s 
362 


BELLAMY 363 

boots by the fire, his intolerable air of being master in his 
own house; Jane feeding the babies with “ pobs.” 

Bellamy left Euston soon after twelve; travelling third- 
class in a smoking carriage, with a man who might have 
been a mechanic, and two commercial travellers, who tried 
to talk to him. But it was impossible to retain the thread 
of what they said, for through the mist of blue smoke he 
saw the endless routine of Jane’s little day: even to the 
shaking of the potatoes round in the pot at dinner-time. 

He told himself fiercely that she coaid not be married : 
that it was quite impossible that he should not get what he 
wanted so terribly — and what he believed himself to have 
always wanted. 

But it was of no use. At twenty past one he saw the 
man knock the ashes out of his pipe; while Jane took off 
the children’s bibs and damped down the fire. They were 
going back to work. 

Bellamy writhed. The intimate knowledge of it all, the 
familiar homeliness, made it unendurable. But it was not 
quite so bad as the evening before, when they had taken off 
their boots in the kitchen and crept upstairs in stockinged 
feet, so as not to wake the children. For in their class — 
his own class — married life was inevitably intimate: there 
was no room for anything else. 

The same craving for some one who understood him, for 
something real and human — which had impelled him in 
his search for Gale — the same obsession over the business 
in hand, which had possessed Bellamy in all he did, pos- 
sessed him now. 

But with this difference. All his life he had forced suc- 
cess, the sort of success he wanted ; but now came the fear 
of failure. He had an individuality as strong as his own, 
to contend against. 

With some women the thought of a husband might have 
only added zest to the chase. But with Jane he knew it 
would be an absolutely insurmountable barrier. Jane had 
not learnt to look at things in a modern way, was indomi- 
table in any question of what she regarded as right. 

Though apart from that — and this, even more than her 
virtue, would render conquest hopeless — if Jane once loved 
a man well enough to marry him, to bear his children, no 


BELLAMY 


364 

other man would exist for her. At this thought it was as 
though some one took Walter Bellamy’s heart very firmly 
between finger and thumb, out — away from that warm 
fireside — and placed it on the cold pavement in the open 
street. For he could still, quite clearly, visualise his own 
emotions. Though, for all that, it was a terrible feeling to 
realise, for the first time in his life, that anything might be 
quite hopeless. 

The wait at the Junction appeared interminable : the half- 
hour before the local train crawled into Edge station longer 
than all the rest of the journey put together. It seemed to 
Walter Bellamy that all his life he had been pursuing, and 
overtaking; but that Fate was now having its turn : marking 
time. 

He had thought of marriage with Jane as a thing which 
might come towards the end of his life, a serene sort of 
haven for old age. 

But the longing for her, the passionate sense of jealousy 
towards that pictured man — whom Lady Victoria’s words 
had called into being — was wilder, more passionate than 
anything he had ever felt before. 

It was as though Jane was not only part of his youth, but 
youth itself. That in losing her he would lose every Spring 
that was ever to come. He saw himself growing white and 
thin, and stooping. A mere shadow of a man, amid a fallen 
house of cards. 

As he got out of the train at the little station — so much 
more familiar than the many places he had been to again 
and again since he was last at Edge — he stumbled; there 
was a mist before his eyes, a singing in his ears. But for 
all that he determined to walk up the hill to the town — 
he could not have sat still to be driven — and putting his bag 
in the ancient omnibus, which plied between the station and 
the “ White Hart,” he told the man to take it up and engage 
a bed for him. 

Then, meaning to go slowly, he walked quickly and 
breathlessly up the long, steep incline. The street was very 
empty, it was only a little past four, and most of the people 
were still in the mills. Up in the town nearly all the shops 
were shut, and an uneasy chill came over him: some one 


BELLAMY 365 

must be dead, he thought ; then remembered that it was 
Thursday, early closing day. 

Where the main street branched he turned off to West 
Bank, where he had left his mother and Jane. 

He scarcely thought she would still be there, the house 
was too big. But still he experienced a sort of shock when 
he realised that she had really left. Not that it was empty 
or shut up; but the curtains were somehow different; be- 
sides the doorstep was dirty. The very look of the house 
a negation of Jane. 

Still he rang the bell, and enquired of the slatternly 
woman who answered the door if she knew where Miss 
Irwin had moved to. But she could tell him nothing; and 
after he had moved away he realised that, if that “ man ” 
really did exist, the name Irwin would mean nothing to her. 

He thought of going to the top of the town to watch the 
people come out of Morrison’s mill; but sickened at the 
thought of meeting her before all the world, and turned up 
St. Simon Street instead; and so into the old churchyard, 
determined to wait till the clatter of clogs had gone by. 

It was a soft October day; still warm though the dusk 
was gathering. The same half-witted man was sweeping 
up the leaves from the paths, shambling and muttering. 
The same — or much the same — little group of gaffers 
were on the seat round the tree : shivering a little and talk- 
ing of going home, but still lingering over the affairs of 
State. 

With a mingling of curiosity and courtesy they drew Bel- 
lamy into their talk — “ What do yer think of this ’ere 
danged Government, eh, Maester?” asked one old man, 
with bright child-like eyes gleaming through his heavy horn- 
rimmed spectacles. 

Walter answered; what he scarcely knew. At that mo- 
ment Governments seemed too trivial to be worth a thought. 

“ Yer a stranger ter these ’ere parts, an’t yer?” pursued 
his interrogator. 

“ Ay, that ’ee be,” put in another. “ Oi knawed ’im by 
’is twang.” 

It was odd to think how this might have pleased him 
years ago, thought Bellamy, gazing out over the mist- 


BELLAMY 


366 

haunted valley, but now it seemed as though the words put 
his heart more definitely than ever out in the cold, and he 
began to feel like a ghost. 

One by one the old men hobbled away with talk of tea. 
The man in the horn spectacles lingered last of all. 

“ Females,” he said, likely enough putting the stranger’s 
melancholy abstraction down to love — “ Females is danged 
contrary, alius was an’ alius will be. It’s no manner o’ use 
we men folks maethering our sen about the like o’ them.” 
Here he paused, gathering himself together over his stick, 
preparatory to his departure: then added, with a burst of 
personal feeling, which seemed as though it could no longer 
be repressed. 

“ There’s one thing certain sure ; Oi wish as Oi’d never 
been wed. Females ! ” 

It was growing chilly. The pavement beneath the tree 
was greasy with fallen leaves which the odd job man could 
not keep pace with : it seemed as though the scent of death 
and decay was in the air. All those dead people : had they 
burned as he burned, struggled, fought and loved? And 
how did they regard it now that it was all done with? Ly- 
ing there quietly, thinking it all over, as one thinks over 
one’s own childish escapades. Bellamy saw them far more 
plainly thus — stark and straight, gazing up through the 
earth to the sky — than in any possible Paradise or Purga- 
tory. 

At last the silence was broken by the sound of voices, and 
the clatter of clogs. Coming down the hill, going up the 
hill: all the people on their way home. 

A few passed across the churchyard, taking a short cut 
to Little France, and bending sideways peered at him curi- 
ously through the dusk. 

At last they were all gone. And rising, Bellamy made his 
way into the street, and by devious ways up through the cat- 
tle market to the little low house where Jane had once lived 
with her two sisters. 

The feeling of being a mere unsubstantial spirit came to 
him. It was all so familiar. Here and there he (recognised 
a face; but no one recognised him. It seemed as if their 
very glance put him apart from them, as something alien 
to their own world. 


BELLAMY 


367 

In the low house — from the window of which Lottie 
Irwin had seen young Higginbottom pass between two po- 
licemen — there was an overflowing little family at tea ; but 
no Jane. 

A ridiculous old song, with a refrain of “ Oh, have you 
seen her lately?” swung to and fro through Bellamy's 
mind. Though after all, on reflection, he remembered that 
it was a “ he ” and not “ she ” of whom the song spoke. 

At last he turned into a little baker’s shop in Upton Street, 
a shop where he knew that Jane used to deal. 

There was the same Madonna-faced woman behind the 
counter, grown grey now. Peering at him across the loaves 
of bread, she remembered him, and he could have hugged her 
for it : it seemed to establish his own reality. 

“ Oi reckon it’s all roight yer cornin’ back now,” she said ; 
“but Oi wouldn’t run no risk if I wer’ you, Walter Bel- 
lamy.” She spoke kindly, flushing over the words ; at which 
— for the first time — Bellamy remembered that he was 
not supposed to return to Edge, even as a ghost. 

As for the Irwin girl ; she was not working at Morrison’s 
any more, but at Mackennons’ down at the bottom of the 
town, living close alongside of the mill. 

“ Is she ” For once Bellamy was at a loss for words, 

he could scarcely blurt out the question as to whether she 
was married, and there was nothing else he could think of 
to say. But the woman thought it was Jane’s health about 
which he was concerning himself. 

“ Oh, she looked fine an’ well — considerin’,” she added, 
and flushed. 

“ Considering ? ” 

“ Well, she wasn’t so to speak up to the mark just then. 
Her second was born not a month after, an’ I’ve not seen 
her since.” 

So he had been right. 

There were two children as he had pictured them. And 
of course there was the man. 

Somehow Bellamy got out of the shop. He told himself 
that he had better go straight away to London, believed he 
was going. But for all that his footsteps led him to Mack- 
ennon’s mill, lying in the hollow beneath the old church. 

He walked with his coat thrown back over his arms ; his 


BELLAMY 


368 

hands deep in his trousers pockets, his shoulders rounded, 
all the weight of his body on his hips; while his feet came 
down heavily on the cobbles, for the spring was gone from 
him. 

People glanced at him curiously as he passed. If he had 
not been so well dressed he might have been taken for an 
“ out of work.” 

Almost against Mackennons’ was a small general dealer's, 
thronged with children on errands for butter, sugar, tea, 
etc. ; tiny quantities, just sufficient to last till the next day — 
pay-day. 

At length he managed to gain a hearing, and asked where 
the married woman, who had been Miss Irwin, lived. 

But the shop people did not know. In that friendly fash- 
ion, so common in Edge, the question went the round of the 
customers. Still no information was forthcoming, till a 
matron with a baby on her arm came in. 

“ Missis Halford, it may be as he wants. Oi reckon it’s 
Missis Halford as he means ; Oi know as she’s got a sister 
as is called Irwin. Look, there’s her Willy now,” and she 
pointed to a tiny boy in a tunic, hugging a loaf and a couple 
of kippers. “ Willy, is yer mother along yome? ” 

The child nodded. Bellamy had watched him choosing 
the kippers, with a look of intense anxiety in his tiny face, 
untying the knot in his handkerchief with his teeth, counting 
over the pennies. He was just as Walter had pictured him 
— without the chubbiness : narrow chested and pale, the 
image of the imagined father ! Somehow it was impossible 
to realise that he was really Jane’s child. 

“ Will yer show ’im ter yer place?” asked the matron; 
and the boy nodded — his solemn eyes full on Walter above 
the top of the large loaf. Then led the way, without look- 
ing round, out of the shop, and through a small tangle of 
narrow red houses; while Bellamy followed, feeling as 
though he had shrunk away to something far smaller than 
the child; who he now realised had Jane’s grey eyes — 
Jane’s direct, condemning glance. 

After a while they turned through the narrow archway 
in the middle of a row ; and along the backs of the houses 
into a small yard. 


BELLAMY 369 

A woman’s voice called out asking the child why he had 
been so long: — “ Yer’ Dad’s in a fine taekin’,” it added. 

“ There’s me Maether,” said the boy, in rather an awe- 
struck whisper, as some one in a white apron appeared at 
the door. 

A dark dizziness came over Bellamy. He did not dare 
look up above the apron; make a certainty of what had 
hitherto merely been a dread. It was as if by not looking 
at her he could actually prevent the woman from being Jane. 

Then she spoke : — “ Who is ’un, Willy ? — Did yer want 
me, Maester; I’m Missus Halford.” 

It was not Jane after all! The slurred drawl was as un- 
like her clipped speech as anything could be. For a moment 
Bellamy felt as though he were off his feet; being swung 
round and round in a warm, sunlit space. 

“ I heard that your name had been Irwin,” he said at last. 
“ Excuse me, it must have been some mistake.” His mind 
went fumbling forward in the dark as he spoke : where had 
the boy got those eyes, that expression ? 

“ So it was — Lottie Irwin.” The woman bent a little 
forward from the step and stared at him. “ Oi don’t know 
that Oi — sure to goodness it’s not Wally Bellamy?” her 
voice rose shrilly, there was the sound of a chair being 
pushed back in the room behind her, and a man came to the 
door. “ ’Ere’s Wally Bellamy come back, Bill,” she added, 
with an air of hard indifference ; “ mayhap yer mind ’im.” 

“ Lord, yes, we was in the Shades together ! ” exclaimed 
the man and put out a long yellowish hand. He was grey 
and bent, with a narrow face, and bowed legs, but the mo- 
ment Bellamy saw him he remembered. It was Billy Hal- 
ford, the runner. Strange how persistent life is! He had 
lived on pastry and relishes, but still he had lived, and propa- 
gated his kind — mayhap more runners. 

As if he had guessed Bellamy’s thoughts Halford put out 
a hand, and tweaked the small boy affectionately by the ear : 
— “ No runnin’ fur this ’ere nipper, Wally. No, not if I 
knows it. They say as he’s like Jane — yer mind Jane? 
An’ so ’ee is : the dead spit o’ ’er aben the eyes. But come 
in an’ ’ave some tea an’ tell us where yer’ve been all these 
years. We often talk o’ yer — thought yer was dead.” 


370 


BELLAMY 


“ Nought never comes ter harm ! ” snapped Lottie. She 
had never liked Bellamy, and now stood in the doorway 
making no move to second her husband’s invitation. 

“ I won’t come in now, thanks. Another day, Billy, I’ll 
come and have a yarn ; I want to see Jane.” 

“ Jane’s better without yer,” Mrs. Halford glared at him 
fiercely. “ A lot o’ good yer’ve done ter our Jane. The 
times an’ times as she could a’ married, an’ well too, if it 
’adn’t been fur the bee as yer put i’ ’er bonnet fur ’er ! ” 

“ Then she’s not married.” 

“ What’s that ter you. Come along in, now, Willy. Oi 
can’t be havin’ the tea about all hours.” 

“ Where does she live ? ” 

“ It’s nothing ter yer where ’un lives,” cried the woman ; 
and catching the boy by the arm, swung round. “ Now 
then, young Willy, just yer go an’ get yer ’ands washed. 
Come along now, Bill.” 

Billy Halford — grinning, with the feeble, deprecating 
humour of a man who realises that his wife rules him — 
turned and banged the door loudly, almost in Bellamy’s 
face. Then opened it a crack; peered out, and winked. 

“ She’s got a down on yer, an’ no bloomin’ error,” he 
whispered hoarsely — his furtive backward nod telling Bel- 
lamy to whom he referred. Then he added: — “Twenty- 
one, Court Four, Churton Street,” and closed the door 
again. This time without a sound. 


CHAPTER LX 


T HERE is an expression in Edge, which speaks of a 
“ procession of one.” It was such a procession as 
this that Bellamy made on his upward course to- 
wards Court Four: swinging, swaggering — buoyantly 
treading on air. 

The mill girls had finished their tea by now and were 
parading Upton Street, arm in arm in long lines. They 
glanced at him encouragingly, admiringly, as he forged past 
them, head in air; for he was no longer a pale creeping 
ghost, but a man, full of vitality and strength. 

But Walter Bellamy had no eyes for any one of them! 
He was on the best errand that any man could ever be 
bound upon. 

Fancy that little chip Billy Halford with children! Mis- 
erable little things! He had heard a baby crying in the 
kitchen. His children and Jane’s would never cry. 

He swung round a corner and down the narrow alley- 
way into Court Four ; peering at the numbers in the flicker- 
ing gaslight. Ten — eleven. Impatiently he swept across 
the yard, lit a match and found — number five. 

Then, taken with a sudden whimsical idea he moved into 
the centre of the little square. He would go to the house 
with the brightest light shining through the cleanest and 
straightest blind. 

For a moment or so he stared round. Then caught it — 
very small and narrow, filling up a spare place in one corner 
— -made straight for the door and knocked. 

A strange woman with a candle in her hand, opened to 
him. But Bellamy was by no means daunted. He knew 
Jane’s house when he saw it. 

“ I want Miss Jane Irwin,” he cried, very loudly and dis- 
tinctly, with a dominant note on the “ want.” 

“ Come in, Wally,” said a quiet voice from the back 
37i 


37 ^ 


BELLAMY 


% 


room; and with a sense of having walked over the woman 
with the candle Bellamy went in. 

He had planned, all the way up from Billy Halford’s just 
to take Jane in his arms, and kiss her, and kiss her, without 
giving her time for a word of reproach. 

But she was sitting close against the fire, with her lap 
full of sewing ; and as she did not rise when he entered, the 
best he could do was to kneel down by her side, and put his 
arms round her rigid little form. 

“ Jane, Jane, I’ve come back.’’ 

“ So I see. An* now get up and sit on a chair, Walter 
Bellamy.” 

“You knew my voice; you knew it was me!” he cried, 
for he was not to be damped so easily. 

“ Yes.” Jane had been white when he entered the room, 
but now she shivered, her face drawn and lined with pain. 
It was as if his words had brought back to her all those 
long years during which she had waited and listened. It 
seemed, somehow, horrible to have remembered his voice 
so quickly ; her pride was hurt at the thought. 

“ Get up an’ sit in a chair ; are yer daft, ye great fool, 
Walter Bellamy?” she said: and half rose. With the re- 
sult that all her sewing fell from her lap and Walter 
laid his head there instead ; clinging to her and kissing her 
hands. 

She was not married, but somehow he was afraid. Of 
something less material than that imaginary man, but even 
more difficult to grapple with. 

She felt tears on her hands, and it softened her. But still 
she was very firm ; made him get up and sit on a chair at 
the other side of the hearth, and talk of commonplace 
things. Though once he was away she wanted him back; 
close to her, kissing her hands — the silly thing. 

He told her of Gale’s death : of the great business he had 
built up, and of its failure. Of how irked he had been; 
longing for all the familiar, common things of life ; sick to 
death of playing the gentleman. 

“ It’s ill work pretendin’ to be what you’re not,” re- 
marked Jane sapiently, with as little flattery as Lady Vic- 
toria had shown. But still, how she looked at him ! With 
a sort of unwilling, half-maternal tenderness. After all 


BELLAMY 


373 

he was “ Wally ” : nothing could ever alter him ; make him 
like other people. 

And she loved him. When one loves a man one must 
take him for what he is : she knew that. 

-Now that there was the width of the hearth between 
them her whole being seemed strained towards him. 
Though she still kept him to commonplace things; she had 
suffered so much at his hands already, and was wary. 

He told her of his plans. Of the letters he was con- 
stantly receiving from the American circus owner. 

“ That’s what I’m going to do,” he said. “ It’s all I’m fit 
for : to amuse people, to be in the public eye — to fool, bam- 
boozle them.” He spoke bitterly, half hoping she would con- 
tradict him. “ Jervis is mad about it. He says he can’t get 
a Ring-Master, who looks anything — with any of the air 
of a gentleman — the grand manner — haughty arrogance! 
I can manage that; it’s easier than the simple gentleman. 
Picture me, Jane, with a waxed moustache, frock-coat and 

long whip But by God I’m not depreciating it ! ” he 

added warmly. “ After all it’s the one thing to suit me : 
I’ve known that for a long time. They’re travelling all over 
America ; it’s a tip-top affair, and they get huge audiences. 
It really will be a tremendous lark — I can see myself at 
it.” He rose to his feet, and stood swinging to and fro 
upon the hearth, his face flushed, his eyes bright. 

“ How tremendously alive he is! ” thought Jane; despite 
the grey hairs in that upstanding crest of his, which she felt 
such a longing to smooth back from his forehead. 

Suddenly his face dropped ; it was as if all the brightness 
and colour had been wiped out of it, and bending down he 
laid one hand on her shoulder, giving her a little shake. 
“ But it’s no good unless you’ll come too, unless you’ll be 
my wife. Look here, Jane, I’ve never known anything sure 
and stable in my life except your friendship — I’ve no right 
to say love, no right to expect it. But there’s no taste in 
anything without you — never has been — I fizz up : then 
everything goes flat.” 

He was on his knees at her side again, his arms round 
her, his face strained up to hers. “ Jane, I want you, I want 
you.” 

With an odd little shiver, such as a person gives when 


374 


BELLAMY 


% 

stepping into water of unknown depth, Jane put out one 
hand, and smoothed back the crest of hair from his fore- 
head. Her mind was made up, but still she fenced. 

“ You’ve done without me all these years.” 

“ Only because I didn’t know what I wanted.” 

“ How long would it last now, I’d like to know ? As long 
as yer circussing? ” she asked the question scornfully. 

“ It would last always, because it’s always been there.” 

“ Such talk!” 

“ Jane, will you have me? — You know the worst and the 
best of me.” 

“ A fine lot o’ best there is ter know, young Wally ! ” It 
was ridiculous how she dropped into the old way of speech 
with him ; how her hands seemed to linger over him. 

“ Jane, you must, you must ! ” He pleaded, torn with 
anxiety. He had never felt so uncertain, so fearful of any- 
thing before. 

“ There’s no must in it.” 

“ If you’d only try me.” 

“ There’s no tryin’ in marriage ; it’s takin’ for keeps, or 
leavin’!” 

“ Then take me — for keeps.” There was a sudden note 
of boldness in Bellamy’s voice. “ Take me for keeps, 
Sweetheart.” 

“ It’s four years an’ more since Oi set eyes on yer : ” 
Jane felt the weakening of her position, in descending to a 
complaint; but she could not help it. “ Off you go — just 
loike a man it is, too — stavangin’ about all over the world, 
an’ makin’ certain sure that you’d find me here, waitin’ yer 
when yer got back.” 

“ I won’t do it again: ” there was something of mock hu- 
mility in Bellamy’s voice, for he had realised that crack in 
Jane’s armour. 

“ Yer won’t have the chance, me lod, once Oi’ve got 
yer ” 

“Then you will — Jane, you will, you will. Jane dar- 
ling!” 

“ Well, I suppose that’s about it. You’ll never make 
much o’ a mon — it’ull be loike havin’ the fifth o’ November 
every day, marryin’ you, Walter Bellamy. But Oi reckon, 
as no one else ’ull have yer, Oi ” 


BELLAMY 


375 

She had been pushing him away from her, with both firm 
hands against his chest, as she spoke — her head bent, so 
that he could see nothing beyond the silvery gold head with 
its narrow parting. But now she raised her face to his; 
and he saw her eyes were more intense, swimming in a sort 
of radiance, her mouth — that kissing mouth of hers — 
trembling towards him, and took her in his arms. 

It was wonderful, once having let herself go, how she 
clung to him, the passion and the force of her ; he had heard 
people say that blonde women were cold, but she was like 
a quivering flame against his heart. 

“Jane, Jane — you pearl of a girl — you little Flower- 
face, how I love you! Carissima mia.” Bellamy held her 
close: the very touch of her thrilled him through and 
through ; though with this feeling there was that deeper one 
which comes with an almost inevitable mating. But for all 
— he could not keep quiet, was conscious of all the lan- 
guages of which he knew enough to make love in. 

Jane, however, did not speak; till at last she drew herself 
a little apart from him — still quivering, her cheeks pink, 
her eyes glowing. And then what she said was character- 
istic enough. 

“ Eee, lod, it’s past all understands, what Oi see in yer, 
to be so soft with yer.” 




































A 




■ 































































































































































































































